BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 


BOTTLED   UP  IN 
BELGIUM 

THE  LAST  DELEGATE'S 
INFORMAL  STORY 


BY 
ARTHUR  BARTLETT  MAURICE 

Author  of  "The  New  York  of  the  Novelists,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 

1917 


Copyright,  1917.  by 
MOFFAT.  YARD  AND  COMPANY 


Published,  October  1917 


CONTENTS 

PART  I.  GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     BOTTLE  VISIONS 3 

II     A  WAR   TIME   CROSSING — SHIPBOARD   SPY 

MANIA — FALMOUTH  AND  LONDON     .      .       8 

III  RUNNING  THE  MINE  FIELDS — ROTTERDAM 

— BELGIANS  IN  HOLLAND — THE  WIRE     .      18 

IV  FIRST  BRUSSELS  IMPRESSIONS — THE  INVAD- 

ERS— GERMAN  SOLDIERS — THE  MEN  OF 
THE  C.R.B. — CLOCKS,  RESTAURANTS,  AND 
THEATERS 28 

V     "FoR  GOD,  FOR  COUNTRY,  AND  FOR  YALE  !"     44 

PART  TWO.     INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

I  THE  COMMISSION  AND  ITS  CHIEF — THE 
C.N. — MOTOR  CARS — THE  AGGLOMERA- 
TION— THE  SLEUTHS — THE  DOCK  OF- 
FICE— STAGING  THE  COMEDY  ....  53 

II     GERMAN  OFFICERS 78 

III  MORE  GERMAN  OFFICERS 95 

IV  BEYOND   THE   MAGIC   DOOR — WAR   BOOKS 

AND  OTHERS — THE  OLD  AFFICHES     .      .104 

V     LOUVAIN:     THIRTY  MONTHS  LATER     .      .116 


2022104 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

VI     "To  UNDERSTAND  GERMANY"  ....   124 
VII     UNDER    THE    YOKE  —  THE    "LIBRE    BEL- 

GIQUE" VlLLALOBAR THE     COMING     OP 

THE  DONS — DISCRETION 138 

PART  THREE.  GETTING  OUT  OF  THE 
BOTTLE 

I     A  PARIS  MEMORY       .      .      .      .      .      .      .   157 

II     LAST  DAYS  IN  BRUSSELS — THE  CHANGING 

CITY 161 

III  DEPARTURE  —  THE  RHINE  —  THE  BLACK 

FOREST 174 

IV  FRANCE — THE  STARRY  BANNER — YARNS  OP 

PARIS 183 

V    HOMEWARD  BOUND    .....  ,195 


PART  I 
GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 


BOTTLED  UP  IN 
BELGIUM 


BOTTLE  VISIONS 

THERE  have  been  times  when  I 
thought  that  the  people  who  have  been 
at  home  have  been  the  ones  who  have  seen 
things  and  experienced  emotions.  There 
were  days  in  February  and  March,  1917, 
when  the  men  in  Belgium  had  a  sense  of 
being  far  away  from  the  real  march  of 
events.  For  the  thrills  they  had  to  depend 
upon  the  meager  bits  of  news  that  leaked  in. 
They  brought  blazing  visions.  Across  the 
Atlantic,  in  the  streets,  the  newsboys  were 

3 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

crying  the  extras.  The  flag  was  being  un- 
rolled at  every  window.  In  the  theaters  the 
audiences  were  rising  to  the  first  bars  of  the 
National  Anthem.  Platform  orators  were 
hailing  a  land  united,  "From  the  rockbound 
coast  of  Maine  to  the  Everglades  of  Flor- 
ida." We  could  not  sing  The  Star 
Spangled  Banner  or  cheer  for  the  flag.  We 
were  only  shut  up  in  the  Bottle,  a  highly 
charged  electric  wire  to  the  North,  the 
battling  armies  to  the  South,  the  forbidden 
land  of  military  operations  to  the  West,  and 
to  the  East — Germany!  We  wondered 
just  what  day  the  crash  was  coming  and 
what  it  was  going  to  bring.  "We  may  all  be 
hanged  yet — or  shot,"  said  the  Director,  in  a 
moment  of  smiling  geniality.  Brand  Whit- 
lock  said  that  the  situation  reminded  him 
of  the  old  farmer  in  the  Middle  West  whose 
wife  had  been  long  bedridden.  "I  do  hope," 
he  said,  "that  she  gets  well — or  some- 

4 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

thing!"  We  speculated  about  our  chances 
of  eventual  refuge  in  friendlier  surround- 
ings. We  compared  notes  of  what  we  had 
heard  of  the  comforts  and  discomforts  of 
the  various  prison  camps.  Sometimes,  in 
moments  of  American  flippancy,  we  made 
bets  about  our  destination.  Promises  of 
safe  conduct  were  in  the  bond,  they  were 
even  in  writing,  but  somehow  we  had  lost 
confidence  in  scraps  of  paper. 

It  was  understood  that  in  entering  the 
American  Service  for  Relief  in  Belgium,  a 
delegate  was  to  write  nothing  about  the  con- 
ditions of  that  country  resulting  from  the 
actions  of  the  occupying  military  authorities 
until  six  months  after  the  expiration  of  the 
war.  I  do  not  know  whether  that  condi- 
tion still  holds,  but  I  am  assuming  that  it 
does.  So  I  am  leaving  for  others,  of  longer 
service  and  far  wider  experience,  to  tell, 
when  they  see  fit,  of  the  friction  and  strife, 

5 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

of  the  land  under  the  yoke,  of  how  the 
chomeurs  looked  when  they  went  away,  and 
how  they  looked  when  they  came  back,  of 
what  happened  to  the  men  and  women  of 
Virton.  This  is  merely  a  superficial  story, 
written  as  lightly  as  the  grim  subject  will 
allow. 

But  if  the  more  terrible  side  of  things  as 
they  are  in  the  stricken  land  is  not  to  be  told 
in  detail,  the  haunting  memory  of  it  must 
endure.  Never  to  be  forgotten  was  the 
coming  of  the  trains  with  their  ghastly  bur- 
den ;  the  remnants  of  men  dropping  from  the 
opened  cars  to  the  ground,  the  faces  like 
those  faces  we  saw  in  hideous  photographs 
showing  the  victims  of  the  crimes  of  the 
Congo  and  Puju  Mayo.  Never  to  be  for- 
gotten the  wailing  of  heart  stricken 
women:  "Oh!  My  husband!  My  son!  My 
brother!"  or  the  officers  of  his  Imperial  Maj- 
esty Wilhelm  II,  lining  the  station  platform 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

with  sneers  and  laughter.  It  is  not  pleas- 
ant to  think  of  the  laughter  and  the  sneers. 
They  recall  the  pangs  of  impotent  fury, 
moments  of  seeing  red,  the  imagining  of  the 
possession  of  a  vengeance  wreaking  power, 
of  the  strength  to  shatter  and  blast. 


II 

A  WAR  TIME  CROSSING — SHIPBOARD   SPY 
MANIA — FALMOUTH  AND  LONDON 

IT  was  the  eighth  day  out  of  New  York 
that  we  first  touched  elbows  with  the 
reality  of  war.  We  were  running  up  to- 
wards the  English  coast.  "We  are  nearing 
the  minefields,"  was  the  word  passed  from 
passenger  to  passenger.  Ahead  of  us, 
though  beyond  the  vision,  the  sweepers  were 
clearing  a  path  of  safety.  Suddenly  the 
ship  slowed  down,  and  markedly  changed  its 
course.  "Orders  from  the  British  Admir- 
alty" was  the  explanation.  As  darkness 
came  down,  a  blazing  light  was  made  to  play 
on  the  Dutch  tricolor  flying  at  the  masthead. 
"See  who  we  are  and  don't  fire,"  the  flag 
seemed  to  be  saying.  Then,  in  the  morning, 

8 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

we  saw  the  brown  Scillies.  Out  of  the  sky 
came  a  huge  oblong  floating  object.  It  was 
a  British  Parseval.  It  scrutinized  us,  then 
apparently  satisfied,  turned  northward, 
changed  its  mind,  returned,  and  followed  us 
all  the  way  from  Land's  End  to  Falmouth 
Harbor.  I  had  left  New  York  on  Sunday, 
January  7th,  by  the  Holland-American 
liner,  Nieuw  Amsterdam,  for  a  minimum 
service  of  six  months  with  the  American 
Commission  for  Relief  in  Belgium.  Fate 
had  written  that  those  six  months  were  never 
to  be  finished.  I  was  to  be  the  last  delegate 
to  reach  the  occupied  country.  Others 
started  later,  but  were  turned  back  by 
events.  Thus,  although  the  amount  of  work 
I  was  able  to  accomplish  seems,  looking 
backwards,  ridiculously  inadequate,  I  shall 
always  retain  the  title  of  the  C.  R.  B. 
nouveau.  Crossing  with  me  was  Arrow- 
smith  of  New  York.  He  was  returning, 

9 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

after  a  few  months'  absence,  to  work  that  he 
had  begun  more  than  a  year  before.  He 
had  been  stationed  at  Liege,  and  his  descrip- 
tions of  the  city  and  of  the  Ardennes  hills 
and  valleys,  forests  and  winding  streams, 
brought  back  vividly  the  Walter  Scott 
romance,  "Quentin  Durward."  I  seemed 
to  see  the  great  banquet  hall  in  the  Castle, 
the  murdered  Bishop,  the  terrified  Liegeois, 
and  to  hear  the  Scottish  Archer's  ringing 
call  of  defiance  and  warning  to  the  Wild 
Boar. 

Going  to  Europe  was  not  the  casual  affair 
of  happier  affairs.  There  is  a  story  in  it- 
self in  the  complications  attendant  upon  pro- 
curing the  United  States  passport,  the  futile 
search  for  the  birth  certificate — we  were  lax 
in  those  matters  in  the  years  when  the  world 
was  young — the  going  about  from  Con- 
sulate to  Consulate  for  the  necessary  vises. 
In  the  end  a  baptismal  certificate  was  ac- 
10 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

cepted  in  lieu  of  the  birth  certificate  which 
could  not  be  found,  and  the  passport,  "ob- 
ject— relief  work"  was  issued  for  travel  in 
Great  Britain,  Holland  and  Belgium.  The 
later  additions  of  Germany,  Switzerland, 
France  and  Spain  were  not  then  foreseen. 
At  the  beginning  of  January,  the  Nieuw 
Amsterdam  was  regarded,  from  the  points 
of  comfort  and  safety,  as  the  best  boat  cross- 
ing the  Atlantic.  Consequently  the  pas- 
senger list  was  a  heavy  one  and  all  nationali- 
ties were  represented.  You  became  con- 
scious of  the  babel  of  tongues  in  the  long 
waiting  in  line  at  the  Hoboken  pier  in  the 
winter  evening,  under  the  flickering  arc 
light.  On  the  ship  that  spirit  of  unconven- 
tional friendliness  which  has  always  been  a 
feature  of  travel  by  sea — which  made 
acquaintance  without  the  formality  of  in- 
troduction a  matter  of  course — was  mark- 
edly absent.  You  were  guarded  in  your 
11 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

talk,  the  war  was  a  subject  to  be  discussed 
only  with  those  of  whom  you  felt  compara- 
tively sure.  You  looked  from  face  to  face 
in  the  smoking  room,  speculating  as  to  who 
were  making  the  trip  for  reasons  of  political 
espionage.  .When  a  stranger  entered  into 
conversation  with  you,  you  felt  that  you 
must  lead  him  to  the  point  where  he  would 
have  to  pronounce  "squirrel"  before  becom- 
ing confidential.  You  were  listening 
acutely  for  shades  of  accent.  In  the  spy 
mania  rampant,  there  were  probably  many 
injustices  done.  There  was  a  tall,  noisy 
blond,  who  invaded,  uninvited,  every  corner 
of  conversation,  who  told  marvelous  tales  of 
escapes  from  prison  camps,  and  who  was 
heard  conversing  with  the  ship's  stewards  in 
singularly  fluent  German.  The  English 
lady  across  the  table — incidentally  her  own 
intimate  knowledge  of  Berlin,  Paris,  Lon- 
don and  Washington  and  her  repeated  cross- 
12 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

ings  made  her  hard  to  place — turned  her 
eyes  suspiciously  in  his  direction.  "I  am 
convinced  that  he  has  his  number  in  the  Wil- 
helmstrasse"  was  the  way  she  expressed  it. 
There  were  others  who  shared  that  opinion. 
"Nonsense,"  said  a  well  known  member  of 
the  Canadian  Parliament  a  few  days  later, 
"I  know  all  about  him.  I've  known  him 
all  his  lif e.  I  know  his  family  in  Ottawa. 
The  only  thing  the  matter  with  him  is  that 
he  is  rather  light  in  the  head  and  he  likes  to 
hear  himself  talk."  Then  there  was  the 
young  woman  with  the  eyes  who  was  sup- 
posed to  be  going  to  Rome  as  a  Red  Cross 
nurse  and  who  kept  in  training  for  hospital 
work  by  playing  poker — very  profitable  to 
herself — from  morning  to  night.  In  a  word 
the  voyage  was  a  nine-days'  game  of  "Sus- 
pect your  neighbor."  We  were  to  learn  the 
difference  between  the  easy  going,  too  credu- 
lous England  of  other  days  and  the  England 
13 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

that  had  learned  the  lesson  taught  by  grim 
war.  That  examination  of  passengers  in 
the  wooden  sheds  on  the  Falmouth  Dock 
lasted  from  early  morning  until  nearly  sun- 
down. I  can  imagine  nothing  more  polite 
and  nothing  more  thorough.  Scotland  Yard 
was  there  aiding  the  military  authorities. 
In  my  own  case  I  was  saved  by  chance  from 
a  possible  detention  of  several  days. 
Through  an  oversight  I  had  failed  to  obtain 
from  the  C.  R.  B.  office  the  necessary  papers 
stating  my  business  in  England.  "You 
have  nothing  to  show  why  you  are  here," 
said  the  officers.  But  a  commission  that  I 
had  neither  invited  nor  welcomed  soon 
smoothed  the  way.  Frederick  Palmer,  who 
is  the  accredited  representative  of  the  Amer- 
ican Press  to  the  British  Army  and  Fleet, 
had  asked  me  to  take  the  manuscript  of  his 
"My  Second  Year  of  the  War"  to  England 
in  order  that  it  might  be  censored  by  the 
14 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

British  War  Office.  My  last  impression  of 
New  York  was  of  Palmer,  bareheaded,  rim- 
ming after  my  taxicab,  as  it  left  the  Players 
Club,  to  throw  in  the  concluding  chapters. 

Behind  the  examiners  a  man  was  standing. 
He  scrutinized  me  sharply  and  ran  his  eyes 
over  the  papers  that  I  had  submitted.  It 
was  his  whispered  suggestion  that  led  to  the 
question. 

"Have  you  a  manuscript  of  any  kind  with 
you?" 

I  replied  that  I  had. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Frederick  Palmer's  new  war  book." 

"Please  go  and  get  it." 

When  I  returned  with  the  manuscript  the 
stranger  stepped  forward.  He  was  a  Royal 
Messenger  from  the  War  Office.  Mr. 
Palmer  had  cabled  word  of  my  coming. 
He  had  been  sent  from  London  to  meet  me. 
He  would  relieve  me  of  the  manuscript  and 
15 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

assume  all  responsibility.  Wide  open  were 
flung  the  doors  that  led  to  the  waiting  train. 
With  curtains  tight  drawn  against  the 
night,  we  wound  our  way  across  Cornwall 
and  South  Devon,  Somersetshire  and  on  into 
Paddington.  It  was  almost  midnight  when 
we  arrived,  and  the  effect  of  the  taxi  ride, 
from  station  to  hotel,  through  the  fog  barely 
pierced  by  the  dim  lights,  was  that  of  climb- 
ing a  great  hill.  "In  the  morning  you  must 
go  to  Bow  Street  Police  Station  to  report 
the  first  thing,"  were  the  last  words  of  en- 
joinment,  as  I  sought  my  room  for  the  night. 
Somehow  the  very  name  brought  a  shock. 
My  sleep  was  broken  by  dreams  of  a  gor- 
geously criminal  past.  "Report  to  Bow 
Street  in  the  morning!"  I  might  have  been 
a  Claude  Duval,  a  Jack  Sheppard,  I  might 
even  have  been  a  Militant  Suffragette.  As 
I  look  back  now,  however,  I  am  not  thinking 
of  the  visits  to  Bow  Street  that  I  made  but 
16 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

of  the  one  that  I  was  spared.  One  of  the 
precautionary  measures  against  Zeppelin 
raids  is  the  imposition  of  a  severe  punish- 
ment on  any  one  who  shows  a  brightly 
lighted  window.  It  was  almost  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning  and  I  was  reading, 
with  my  feet  gloriously  stretched  out  to  the 
fire,  when  the  telephone  rang,  and  rang 
again.  The  police  were  below,  seeking  the 
one  responsible  for  the  offending  glare. 
But  the  discovery  that  it  was  just  one  of 
those  "fool  Americans"  seemed  to  satisfy 
them.  Assured  that  the  curtains  were 
drawn  tight  against  the  night,  they  went 
away. 


17 


Ill 

RUNNING  THE   MINE   FIELDS — ROTTERDAM 
BELGIANS   IN    HOLLAND — THE  WIRE 

IT  was  understood  that  from  ten  days  to 
two  weeks  would  be  the  amount  of  time 
that  we  would  be  likely  to  remain  in  London 
waiting  for  orders  from  Brussels  and  Rot- 
terdam. We  arrived  the  night  of  Wednes- 
day, January  16th.  About  noon,  the  fol- 
lowing Monday,  we  were  informed  that  we 
were  to  start  that  evening.  At  half  past 
seven,  we  took  our  seats  in  the  train  for 
Gravesend.  To  each  of  us,  as  we  left  the 
C.  R.  B.  offices,  had  been  handed  a  huge 
package  with  instructions  to  return  it  from 
the  Rotterdam  office  if  we  reached  there. 
"It  is  a  special  kind  of  life  preserver,"  they 
18 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

explained,  "the  particular  property  and  in- 
vention of  the  C.  R.  B."  I  recalled  the  trip 
from  Victoria  to  Gravesend  in  other  days 
as  one  of  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  On 
this  occasion,  it  was  nearer  two  hours  and  a 
half.  Then  three  hours  more  of  waiting  be- 
hind locked  doors  in  an  icy  cold  compart- 
ment. A  friendly  guard  thrust  his  head  in 
and  explained  that  the  delay  was  caused  by 
the  fact  that  there  were  ninety-eight  interned 
Germans  on  the  train  who  were  being 
shipped  across  for  Germany  via  Holland. 
They  had  to  be  examined  first.  When  our 
turn  came,  it  was  past  two,  and  it  was  past 
three  when  finally  we  walked  up  the  gang 
plank  of  the  Prinz  Heinrich.  In  a  way  the 
examination.of  baggage  had  been  more  rigid 
than  that  at  Falmouth.  Landing  they  had 
taken  away  my  gold;  departing  they  took 
every  bit  of  writing,  all  my  books  and  the 
pack  of  playing  cards  that  I  had  acquired 
19 


for  solitaire,  as  an  assurance  against  monot- 
onous hours.  It  was  just  as  well.  There 
were  very  few  monotonous  hours  coming. 
It  was  six  in  the  morning  when  the  boat 
sailed  and  after  two  or  three  hours  of  sleep 
in  a  cubby  hole,  we  crawled  on  deck  to  find 
a  high  wind  and  a  choppy  sea.  Noon,  and 
we  were  nearing  the  region  of  the  minefields, 
and  the  order  was  given  out  that  every  pas- 
senger must  have  his  life  preserver  ready  at 
hand.  The  bow  of  the  ship  was  rising  and 
then  smashing  down  again.  I  could  not 
help  thinking  how  easy  that  motion  would 
make  the  work  of  the  mine  in  the  event  of 
our  striking  one.  Similar  thoughts  were  in 
the  mind  of  Arrowsmith,  standing  at  my 
side.  "I  would  live  just  about  five  minutes 
in  that  icy  water,"  he  said  with  a  gloomy 
smile.  We  would  have  rather  welcomed  the 
appearance  of  a  German  torpedo  boat  to 
take  us  into  Zeebrugge.  That  had  been  the 
20 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

fate  of  the  Prinz  Heinrich  on  her  previous 
trip.  But  just  then  I  felt  the  happy  pallor 
of  impending  seasickness  spreading  over  my 
face  and  began  to  be  very  brave  when  I 
thought  about  the  mines. 

The  lights  were  burning  when  we  reached 
the  mouth  of  the  Scheldt.  In  quieter  water, 
I  recalled  seeing  the  provision  ships  flying 
the  flag  of  the  C.  R.  B.  and  two  British  tor- 
pedo boats  and  hearing  the  boom  of  distant 
guns.  We  learned  what  the  sound  had 
meant  the  next  morning  in  Rotterdam — an 
engagement  between  English  and  German 
torpedo  fleets.  The  German  wounded  were 
being  landed  in  Holland.  Again  in  Rotter- 
dam we  had  anticipated  a  delay  of  doubtful 
duration.  Again  we  were  rushed  quickly 
through. 

Ten  days  to  a  fortnight,  in  this  con- 
demned town,  had  been  Arrowsmith's  pes- 
simistic prophecy  as,  after  the  walk  through 
21 


the  streets  at  midnight,  we  found  ourselves 
in  the  Maas  Hotel.  Nor  did  the  prospect 
seem  any  more  promising  when,  in  the  morn- 
ing we  reported  at  the  Headquarters  of  the 
Commission.  No.  98  Haringvliet  faces  a 
tree  bordered  street  beside  a  busy  canal  in 
the  heart  of  the  city.  It  was  the  official 
address  of  all  the  Americans  who  as  dele- 
gates went  into  Belgium.  If  your  friends 
at  home  addressed  letters  there  and  the  Fates 
were  kind,  and  the  Germans  approved  of  the 
contents,  you  might  get  them  in  time,  which 
meant  anywhere  from  six  weeks  to  six 
months  later.  Over  the  faces  of  the  men  in 
98  spread  a  grin  when,  in  answer  to  ques- 
tions, I  acknowledged  the  possession  of 
binoculars  and  a  camera.  Of  the  binocu- 
lars I  was  particularly  proud.  They  had 
been  a  parting  present.  "Where  do  you 
think  you  are  going  I  Through  the  Niagara 
Rapids  in  the  Maid  of  the  Mist,  or  down 
22 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

to  Luna  Park?"  But  my  embarrassment 
disappeared,  when,  in  turning  over  these 
possessions,  I  saw  the  safe  half  full  of  other 
cameras  and  field  glasses  left  for  safe  keep- 
ing by  previous  delegates. 

Information  that  Arrowsmith  received  at 
98  Haringvliet  sent  him  scurrying  off  in 
search  of  old  friends,  Belgians  whom  he  had 
last  seen  in  Liege,  and  who,  at  desperate 
risks,  had  made  their  way  past  the  wire  to 
the  friendly  soil  of  Holland.  Two  or  three 
of  them  appeared  at  the  hotel  and  from  their 
lips  I  listened  to  the  many  strange,  romantic 
stories  of  escape.  Of  one  of  them,  with 
whom  I  was  to  dine  that  night,  Arrowsmith 
said  to  me  with  a  smile:  "It  was  his  bov." 

• 

I  knew  at  once  to  what  the  reference  was. 
It  was  Arrowsmith's  pet  story,  which  he  told 
so  often  and  which  was  so  well  worth  the 
telling.  It  concerned  a  little  Liegeois,  six 
years  old,  who  had  conceived  a  passionate 
23 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

attachment  to  the  American.  But  one  day 
he  saw  Arrowsmith  riding  by  in  a  motor  car 
by  the  side  of  a  German  officer.  Heart- 
broken, shaken  with  sobs,  the  boy  rushed  off 
to  his  mother.  "Oh,  mamam !  J'ai  vu  Ar- 
rowsmith, mon  ami,  avec  un  Boche!"  And 
later,  when  man  and  boy  met,  the  latter's 
greeting  was  one  of  sad  accusation,  "Je  t'ai 
vu  avec  un  Boche." 

The  morning  of  Thursday,  January  25th, 
we  took  our  seats  in  the  train  for  Rosendael. 
There  we  were  met  by  Rene  Jansen,  the  C. 
R.  B.  courier.  In  a  motor  car  we  dashed 
southward  towards  the  frontier.  Soon  the 
road  began  to  be  littered  with  Dutch  sol- 
diers, the  material  evidence  of  Holland's 
two  and  a  half  years'  mobilization  against 
the  feared  invasion.  Then  came  a  point 
where  there  were  no  more  Dutch  uniforms 
to  be  seen.  I  asked  why.  We  were  on 
Belgian  soil,  in  what  is  known  as  the  Grenz- 
24 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

zone.  Suddenly,  as  we  rounded  a  turn,  we 
were  confronted  by  a  great  double  gate  of 
reenforced  wood  barring  the  road.  To  right 
and  left  stretched  a  thin  ribbon  of  steel.  It 
was  the  famous  electric  wire  stretched  across 
Northern  Belgium  to  prevent  the  Belgians 
from  escaping  into  Holland.  Behind,  a 
hundred  feet  apart,  paced  men  of  the  Ger- 
man Landsturm.  Our  car  came  to  a  stop. 
The  double  gates  swung  open.  "This  is  the 
neck,"  said  Arrowsmith.  "You  are  going 
into  the  Bottle.  The  Lord  knows  when  or 
whether  you  get  out  of  it  again." 

I  had  heard  much  of  the  German  system. 
I  was  to  hear  more  of  it  from  the  boasting 
lips  of  German  officers.  It  may  be  very 
fine,  it  may  be  very  thorough,  but  from  my 
own  personal  contact  with  it,  I  have  found 
it  childish  compared  to  the  system  that  I 
had  encountered  in  England  and  the  system 
that  I  was  later  to  encounter  in  France.  In 
25 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

thinking  of  it  I  recall  a  character  in  one  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe's  stories  of  a  man  poring 
over  a  map.  He  could  find  the  name  of  the 
smallest  hamlet  but  he  could  not  read  the 
continents.  One  day  crossing  the  frontier 
will  mean  being  stripped  and  having  your 
back  painted  with  acid  to  be  sure  that  you 
are  not  carrying  any  secret  writings;  the 
next  you  could  carry  a  message  of  military 
purport  from  the  British  War  Office  to  every 
able-bodied  male  subject  in  Belgium.  Our 
examination  at  the  wire  was  conducted  by 
a  fat,  dull-eyed  under  officer  aided  by  a 
sleepy  boy  in  his  teens.  The  under  officer 
wrote  in  a  ledger;  the  boy  without  looking 
streaked  fingers  through  trunk  trays  and 
bags.  Soldiers  stood  about  looking  blankly 
into  nothingness.  There  was  an  hour's  wait 
for  no  apparent  reason,  and  then  we  entered 
another  motor  car,  this  one  flying  the  red 
and  white  emblem  of  the  C.  R.  B.  Across 
26 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

the  flat  country,  over  the  jolting  pave,  we 
were  hurried  at  forty-five  miles  an  hour. 
The  roads  were  deserted  save  for  an  occa- 
sional dog-drawn  cart.  The  Belgian  chien 
de  trait  had  so  far  escaped  requisitioning. 
Beyond  Antwerp,  where  we  stopped  for  a 
late  luncheon,  we  saw,  in  the  shells  of  what 
had  once  been  prosperous  villages,  the  first 
evidences  of  the  Krupp  guns.  When  we 
reached  Brussels  the  lights  were  beginning 
to  glitter  in  the  Rue  Royale. 


27 


IV 


FIRST  BRUSSELS  IMPRESSIONS — THE  INVADERS 

GERMAN  SOLDIERS — THE  MEN  OF  THE 

C.     R.     B. — CLOCKS,     RESTAURANTS     AND 
THEATERS 

THE  first  impressions  of  Brussels  were 
of  a  city  surprisingly,  almost  disap- 
pointingly, normal.  It  was  in  the  bright 
light.  The  Ministers  of  the  neutral  coun- 
tries were  there  to  observe  and  to  report. 
It  was  the  home  of  the  occupying  military 
government,  and  upon  its  material  comfort 
depended  the  comfort  of  thousands  of  Ger- 
man officers.  There  was,  in  the  early  part 
of  1917,  still  a  hope  that  the  sympathy,  or  at 
least  the  tolerating  acquiescence,  of  a  part 
of  the  Bruxellois  might  be  won  over  to  the 
Imperial  Government.  The  uniforms  did 
28 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

not  push  civilians  off  the  sidewalks  nor 
hustle  them  about  in  tramcars.  Yet  never 
for  a  moment  could  one  get  away  from  the 
sense  of  occupation. 

Before  the  war  the  names  of  the  streets 
and  squares  were  printed  first  in  French  and 
then  in  Flemish.  The  Germans'  scheme  re- 
versed the  order.  "Divide  to  rule"  has  ever 
been  the  motto  of  the  Hapsburgs  and  the 
Hohenzollerns  have  adapted  it  to  Belgium. 
The  occupying  government  in  a  thousand 
ways  and  on  every  possible  occasion  seeks  to 
divide,  to  pit  Walloon  against  Fleming; 
Limbourg  against  the  Brabant.  Every- 
where the  agents  are  at  work,  raking  up 
historical  injustices,  emphasizing  the  differ- 
ences of  race  and  language.  But  though 
outwardly  submissive  they  are  a  hard  people 
to  drive,  these  Belgians.  There  may  have 
been  discontent  before,  but  the  invasion  and 
its  cruelties  have  united  them,  welded  them 
29 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

more  than  ever  into  one  people.  "Who  are 
the  figures  in  the  war  that  stand  out  as  he- 
roes to  the  Belgian  imagination?  Joffre? 
Poincare?  Lloyd-George?  Haig?"  I  once 
asked  a  Belgian.  There  was  reproof  in  the 
grave  reply,  "Why  our  own,  of  course. 
Our  King  and  Cardinal  Mercier."  Albert's 
subjects  may  have  grumbled  at  times  when 
he  was  in  the  palace  at  Brussels  or  at 
Laeken,  but  to-day,  holding  the  court  to- 
gether at  Havre,  a  King  of  whose  kingdom 
only  a  strip  of  sandy  coast  remains,  he  is 
an  heroic,  an  inspiring  figure,  the  incarna- 
tion of  Belgium's  rights,  and  the  spirit  of 
the  Brabanponne,  That  he  remains  com- 
paratively passive  under  the  yoke  does  not 
mean  that  the  Belgian  is  resigned  to  it. 
When  he  resisted  by  force  of  arms  Prussian 
aggression  and  paid  the  terrible  price  he  did 
his  share.  On  England,  France  and  the 
United  States  rests  the  duty  of  restoring 
30 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

him  to  his  own.  That  has  been  his  history. 
The  fact  that  his  land  has  been  the  Cockpit 
of  Europe  has  relieved  him  of  certain  re- 
sponsibilities. 

The  Belgian  of  the  past  may  be  compared 
to  the  proprietor  of  a  tavern  on  the  highway 
to  which  brawlers  insist  on  coming.  He 
could  not  bar  his  door  against  the  intruders, 
or  quell  the  disturbance.  So  when  the  bot- 
tles began  to  fly  and  plates  were  being 
smashed,  he  sought,  with  the  wisdom  of  ex- 
perience, a  corner  of  safety,  and  when  the 
row  had  spent  itself,  emerged  to  say,  "Now, 
gentlemen,  I  expect  you  to  pay  for  the 
breakage  and  to  set  the  place  in  order. 
From  the  appearance  of  the  room  you  must 
have  enjoyed  yourselves  immensely.  But 
please  don't  forget  that  it  is  my  room." 

But  the  Prussian  vision,  which  sees  so 
far,  and  yet  which,  from  some  curious  astig- 
matism, overlooks  so  much  that  is  perfectly 
31 


BOTTLED  UP,  IN  BELGIUM 

obvious,  was  once  again  at  fault.  In  the 
beginning  the  Germans  counted  on  speedy 
assimilation.  They  were  bringing  the  boon 
of  Teutonic  Kultur.  After  a  few  months 
had  healed  the  wounds  of  invasion  the  Bel- 
gians would  recognize  the  quality  of  the 
blessing.  To  be  a  part  of  the  German  Em- 
pire, to  acknowledge  the  all  wise  rule  of  the 
Hohenzollerns !  To  the  German  mind  that 
meant  what  conferring  Roman  citizenship 
meant  in  the  eyes  of  the  Roman  of  the  time 
of  Augustus.  Von  Kluck,  on  the  march  to- 
wards Paris  before  the  Battle  of  the  Marne, 
telling  the  frightened  peasants  who  were 
brought  before  him  that  they  would  all  be 
Germans  and  that  it  would  be  the  best  thing 
for  them,  was  sincere.  He  was  merely  ex- 
pressing the  conviction  that  has,  for  a  gen- 
eration and  a  half,  been  scientifically  drilled 
into  the  German  mind,  a  conviction  the  ex- 
pression of  which  seemed  always  to  be  hov- 
32 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

ering  on  the  lips  of  the  gray  coated  officers 
we  knew  in  Brussels.  But  after  two  years 
of  occupation  the  expected  change  of  heart 
had  not  come.  There  could  be  no  mistaking 
the  sentiments  that  lurked  behind  eyes  that 
were  now  sullen,  now  mocking. 

Belgian  resentment  is  based  on  patriotism 
and  also  on  pigheadedness.  Do  not  forget 
that  the  Belgian  of  to-day  is  the  true  lineal 
descendant  of  the  volunteer  of  the  barricades 
of  1830.  The  Dutch  regulars  under  Prince 
Frederick  had  forced  an  entry  into  Brussels. 
But  they  found  the  Royal  Park  a  trap. 
From  the  surrounding  windows  came  a  con- 
tinuous fire.  Every  house  was  an  ambush. 
They  would  have  been  annihilated  or  forced 
to  lay  down  their  arms  were  it  not  that  the 
citizen  soldiers  of  Brussels  considered  that 
fighting  was  a  business  to  be  carried  on  in 
business  hours  only.  Every  evening,  after 
a  day's  work  spent  bravely  on  the  barricades, 
33 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

the  volunteers  left  their  posts,  returned  to 
their  homes,  or  went  to  their  accustomed 
cafes  to  spend  the  evening  in  tranquillity. 

We  had  encountered  sentinels  at  every 
turn  of  the  journey  from  the  frontier;  in 
Brussels  they  were  everywhere.  Landsturm 
men,  bands  carrying  the  word  "Politzei"  on 
their  arms,  were  in  every  square.  The  Ger- 
man flag  was  flying  over  the  Palais  de  Jus- 
tice, the  Bourse,  the  King's  Palace,  every 
public  building  of  the  city.  The  Palais  de 
Justice  was  a  German  barrack,  the  King's 
Palace  a  military  hospital.  The  building  in 
which  took  place  the  Duchess  of  Richmond's 
Ball  the  night  before  the  Battle  of  Waterloo 
was  the  Pass  Zentrale,  to  which  you  applied 
for  your  permit  to  ride  in  a  motor  car  or 
to  make  a  journey  to  Holland.  Every  pub- 
lic building  had  been  taken  over  for  some 
kind  of  military  use  and  thousands  of  pri- 
vate houses  had  been  requisitioned  as  habi- 
34 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

tations  for  the  officers.  How  many  soldiers 
there  were  in  the  capital  it  would  be  hard  to 
say.  The  number  varied  from  week  to 
week.  But  always  it  was  to  be  estimated 
by  the  tens  of  thousands.  There  was  noth- 
ing of  the  romance  of  war  in  their  appear- 
ance. The  green-gray  uniforms  were  soiled 
and  shabby.  The  faces  of  the  men  were 
for  the  most  part  woodenly  inexpressive. 
There  had  been  a  marked  change,  I  was 
told,  since  the  previous  summer.  Formerly 
the  soldiers  sang,  and  the  officers  banged 
tables  and  toasted  one  another  in  the  Palace 
Hotel.  But  gayety  went  out  with  the  col- 
lapse of  the  Kaiser's  peace  overtures.  Then 
there  had  been  bonfires  in  the  streets  and 
the  soldiers  had  danced  around  them,  and 
clapped  one  another  on  the  back  and  told 
every  one  how  the  war  was  victoriously  over 
and  how  they  were  all  going  home.  Had 
not  the  Kaiser  decreed  it?  The  disillusion- 
35 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

ment  brought  a  bitter,  sullen  disappoint- 
ment. The  third  day  after  my  arrival  was 
the  Kaiser's  birthday.  There  was  an  at- 
tempt to  manifest  a  little  spirit  and  enthusi- 
asm. But  it  was  so  obviously  forced. 

Some  of  the  men  of  the  C.  R.  B.  stayed 
in  pensions.  But  most  of  us  lived  in  houses 
which  had  been  placed  at  the  disposal  of 
the  Commission  by  the  owners  for  the  double 
motive  of  appreciation  of  the  work  that  was 
being  done  and  in  order  to  keep  them  from 
being  occupied  by  the  "Boches."  It  was  at 
No.  126  Avenue  Louise,  a  broad  thorough- 
fare lined  by  some  of  the  city's  finest  resi- 
dences and  running  from  the  circle  of  Boule- 
vards to  the  Bois  de  la  Cambre,  that  I  went 
to  live.  The  owner  of  the  house  had  been 
lucky  enough  to  cross  into  France  before 
the  occupation  and  was  living  in  Paris.  In 
the  house,  which  had  been  left  in  charge  of 
two  servants,  eight  of  us,  Leach,  Maverick, 
36 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

Wickes,  Kittredge,  Arrowsmith,  Curtis, 
Sperry  and  I,  had  some  sort  of  headquarters. 
It  was  seldom  that  more  than  four  or  five 
appeared  at  the  breakfast  table.  Maverick 
was  a  North  of  France  man.  Wickes  spent 
the  greater  part  of  the  week  in  Namur. 
Sperry,  to  whom  was  attributed  the  immor- 
tal mot,  "There  isn't  one  of  these  foreign 
countries,  but  what,  if  you  live  in  it  long 
enough,  it  will  'get  your  goat,'  "  usually  had 
an  engagement  elsewhere.  But  no  matter 
what  the  number  present,  here  was  no  chance 
to  complain  of  the  monotony  of  existence. 
"The  life  of  an  American  delegate  is  a  hard 
life,"  Maverick  one  day  said  whimsically. 
"Here  we  are  forced  to  live  in  a  place  quite 
as  humble  as  the  average  house  that  you  see 
on  Fifth  Avenue  overlooking  Central  Park. 
I  am  reduced  to  the  humiliation  of  riding 
about  in  an  Overland  car  with  a  chauffeur 
only  in  half  livery.  To-night  I  shall  prob- 
37 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

ably  be  obliged  to  dine  at  the  Taverne  Roy- 
ale."  But  in  a  way  Maverick's  flippancy 
was  designed  to  cheer  us  up.  When  the 
words  were  spoken  the  thermometer  at  the 
side  of  the  mantelpiece  registered  8°  above 
zero  Fahrenheit.  It  was  the  bitterest  win- 
ter in  recent  history  and  coal  was  not  to  be 
had. 

But  our  lot  in  126  Avenue  Louise  was 
no  more  uncomfortable  than  the  lot  of  the 
other  delegates.  Everywhere  was  the  same 
shivering  splendor.  In  the  Avenue  Marnix 
— No.  18 — lived  Jackson,  Brown,  Pate,  and 
Osborn.  Somewhere  in  the  rather  re- 
mote Rue  Africaine  was  the  habitation  of 
Fletcher  and  Simpson.  In  the  Rue  Saint 
Bernard,  in  a  house  where  in  the  dining 
room  there  was  a  fire-place  with  a  gas  con- 
trivance that  radiated  real  heat  that  could 
be  felt  almost  six  feet  away,  Thwaits,  Wil- 
liams, Percy,  and  Dyer  lived  happily. 
38 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

There  was  a  delightful  gray  haired,  soft 
eyed  little  Abbe  who  liked  the  company,  the 
cooking,  and  the  wines  at  No.  58  Rue  Saint 
Bernard.  About  once  a  week  he  appeared 
at  the  dinner  hour.  "Set  an  extra  cover. 
Monsieur  1'Abbe  will  dine  with  us  to-night," 
the  bonne  would  be  told.  "Oh,  yes,  Mon- 
sieur. I  already  know,  Monsieur.  Mon- 
sieur 1'Abbe  stopped  here  last  evening  to 
inform  me  that  he  would  be  dining  here 
to-night,  and  to  suggest  the  courses."  The 
Director  and  his  son  lived  in  the  Rue  de 
Commerce,  and  the  Assistant  Director  in  a 
young  palace  facing  the  Royal  Park. 

Five  o'clock  was  the  closing  time  for  all 
shops ;  nine  o'clock  for  cafes,  restaurants  and 
theaters.  The  Germans  called  the  hours  six 
and  ten.  They  had  turned  all  the  public 
clocks  in  Belgium  forward  an  hour  to  con- 
form with  the  clocks  in  Berlin.  In  the  se- 
clusion of  your  house  or  your  pocket,  you 
39 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

might  carry  the  hour  more  in  accordance 
with  the  Brussels  changes  of  light  and  dark- 
ness. Thus  there  were  two  times, — "There 
is  Boche  time  and  there  is  Christian  time," 
was  the  way  the  Belgians  expressed  it.  A 
surprising  epidemic  had  broken  out  among 
the  public  clocks  of  Belgium.  It  was  the 
Great  Plague  in  the  history  of  clocks. 
Never  before  have  so  many  clocks  gone  so 
hopelessly  and  irreparably  out  of  order — 
immolated  on  the  altar  of  patriotism.  Be- 
fore the  war,  even  Parisians  were  known  to 
speak  with  envy  of  the  Brussels  cuisine. 
The  resources  at  their  disposal  may  have 
grown  more  limited  but  the  cooks  have  lost 
none  of  their  cunning.  Those  people  who 
could  afford  to  pay  could  dine,  and  dine  well. 
There  were  of  course  the  two  meatless  days 
a  week,  there  were  restrictions  as  to  the  num- 
ber of  courses  allowed  and  there  was  the 
rationing  of  bread. 

40 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

The  Taverne  Royale  once  served  a  patron 
a  rabbit  stew  on  a  Tuesday.  That  rabbit 
stew  deserves  a  place  with  the  bill  of  fare 
which  the  bandit  Luigi  Vampa  offered  to 
Danglars  in  the  last  part  of  the  "Count  of 
Monte  Cristo."  It  cost  the  proprietor  of 
the  restaurant  twenty-five  thousand  francs. 
Prices  were  naturally  high.  In  the  little 
restaurants  near  the  Grand  Place,  for  which 
the  city  has  so  long  been  famous,  such  res- 
taurants as  the  Filet  de  Sole,  the  Gigot  de 
Mouton,  the  fipaule  de  Mouton,  the  bill 
presented  at  the  end  of  an  ordinary  dinner 
would  be  from  forty  to  fifty  francs.  The 
only  communications  appearing  in  the  Bel- 
gian newspapers  that  could  be  regarded  as 
sincere,  were  certain  plaintive  letters  recall- 
ing the  bill  of  fares  at  two  francs  fifty  or 
three  francs  fifty  in  the  days  of  yore.  Yet 
after  a  time  one  began  to  take  prices  philo- 
sophically. After  all  a  franc  was  not  a 
41 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

franc :  it  was  only,  by  compulsion,  four-fifths 
of  a  German  mark — a  matter  of  twelve  cents 
instead  of  approximately  twenty.  We  con- 
soled ourselves  with  that  thought.  Later 
we  found  it  hard  to  adjust  ourselves  to  new 
conditions  when  we  reached  Switzerland  and 
France.  It  led  us  to  extravagance. 

If  an  egg  cost  a  franc,  a  pair  of  boots  was 
proportionately  even  higher.  Yet  it  was 
surprising  to  see  the  brave  showing  made  by 
the  shop  windows  of  Brussels,  despite  two 
and  a  half  years'  unproductiveness,  and  the 
shutting  off  of  supplies  from  the  outside 
world.  Some  of  the  shops  even  went  so  far 
as  to  advertise  that  all  the  goods  displayed 
in  the  etalages  were  being  sold  at  the  prices 
of  August  1st,  1914.  Half  of  the  Brussels 
theaters  were  open  with  the  prices  of  seats 
ridiculously  low,  2.75  francs  for  a  fauteuil 
d'orchestre,  4  francs  for  a  box  seat.  They 
42 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

were  playing  mostly  old  plays,  such  as  the 
"Count  of  Luxembourg"  at  the  Scala  and 
Dumas'  "L'Etrangere"  at  the  Moliere. 


43 


V 

"FOR  GOD,   FOE  COUNTRY,  AND  FOR  YALE!" 

PERHAPS  a  few  words  of  introduc- 
tion are  necessary  to  explain  an  im- 
pression that  I  shall  always  retain  with  par- 
ticular vividness.  The  music  to  which  a 
great  many  of  the  songs  of  our  American 
Universities  are  set  belonged  originally  and 
in  a  number  of  cases  still  belong  to  tunes  of 
earlier  and  foreign  origin.  Thus  a  visiting 
Englishman,  in  the  Cambridge  Stadium  the 
afternoon  of  a  Yale  or  Princeton  football 
game,  would  find  himself  at  home  with  the 
strains  of  "Fair  Harvard.  Thy  sons  to  thy 
jubilee  throng,"  because  he  has  always 
known  them  as  the  medium  of  Tom  Moore's 
"Believe  me  if  all  those  endearing  young 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

charms!"  Two  years  ago,  in  the  Palmer 
Stadium  at  Princeton,  I  witnessed  the  an- 
nual contest  between  Harvard  and  Prince- 
ton in  company  with  Roger  Boutet  de  Mon- 
vel,  the  son  of  the  painter,  and  himself  an 
author  of  conspicuous  talent.  In  the  in- 
terval between  the  halves  the  Harvard  cheer- 
ing section  broke  into  a  song  and  by  the 
waving  of  handkerchiefs,  displayed  a  huge 
crimson  H.  The  Frenchman  turned,  his 
cheeks  slightly  flushed.  "Why,"  he  said, 
"they  are  singing  the  Marseillaise."  "Dear 
old  Yale,"  more  generally  known  as  "Bright 
College  Years,"  is  the  German  national 
anthem;  Columbia's  "Hail  Columbia"  the 
adaptation  of  an  old  Austrian  hymn.  Cor- 
nell's "Up  Above  Cayuga's  Waters"  is 
"Lovely  Annie  Lisle." 

I  had  seen  soldiers,  thousands  of  them,  but 
as  units,  or  in  little  groups  of  two  or  three. 
I  wanted  to  see  them  en  masse,  to  catch  the 
45 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

effect  of  that  almost  invisible  green-gray 
uniform  of  which  I  had  heard  so  much.  I 
remembered  the  description  of  the  march  of 
the  German  armies  through  Brussels  given 
me  by  some  one  who  had  seen  it.  "You 
could  see  the  horses  of  the  passing  Uhlans," 
the  man  had  told  me,  "but  you  could  not 
see  the  riders.  As,  chanting,  the  column 
climbed  the  slope  of  the  Chaussee  de  Lou- 
vain,  it  seemed  to  be  swinging  out  of  the 
Feudal  Ages,"  was  the  way  in  which  Brand 
Whitlock  was  later  to  picture  it.  The 
chance  came  the  second  day  after  the  arrival 
in  Brussels.  A  little  before  noon,  I  had  left 
the  C.  R.  B.  offices  at  66  Rue  des  Colonies 
and  climbed  the  short  cobbly  ascent  to  the 
Rue  Royale.  There  was  the  sound  of  roll- 
ing drums.  Across  the  Place  Royale,  round 
the  equestrian  statue  of  Godfrey  de  Bouil- 
lon, swung  the  head  of  the  column,  on  its 
way  to  the  change  of  guard  mount.  On  it 
46 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

came,  nearer  and  nearer,  the  bayonets  flash- 
ing in  the  sunlight,  the  tramp  of  the  iron- 
shod  boots  timing  with  the  drum  taps. 
Fifty  yards  more  and  the  head  of  the  column 
would  be  opposite  the  point  on  the  sidewalk 
where  I  was  watching.  The  band  leader 
turned,  waved  his  baton  and  there  blared  out 
the  strains  of  Die  Wacht  Am  Rhein. 

Then,  something  very  curious  happened; 
something  that  I  can  never  explain;  that  I 
shall  never  forget.  It  was  the  hold  of  the 
years.  The  moment,  the  scene,  the  green- 
gray  column  against  the  trees  of  the  oppo- 
site park,  passed  from  the  vision  and  from 
the  mind.  The  notes  brought  a  thrill  to  the 
heart,  a  tingle  to  the  cheeks,  a  poignant 
memory  of  kindlier  strife.  I  seemed  to  be 
looking  over  a  vast  amphitheater,  University 
Field  at  Princeton,  or  the  old  Yale  Field, 
or  the  Bowl,  or  the  Palmer  Stadium.  I 
seemed  to  be  seeing  the  waving  of  blue  and 
47 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

orange  and  black,  and  tens  of  thousands  of 
excited  faces,  among  them  those  of  the  most 
beautiful  girls  in  the  world.  I  seemed  to  be 
seeing  the  green  turf  and  the  chalk  lines, 
and  the  teams  running  on  the  field  for  the 
beginning  of  the  second  half,  and  in  the 
great  stand  opposite  the  swinging  hats  of 
the  cheering  section.  And  the  music  was 
molding  itself  into  the  words, — 

Bright  college  years  with  pleasure  rife 
The  shortest,  gladdest  years  of  life. 
How  swiftly  are  ye  gliding  by 
Oh,  why  doth  time  so  quickly  fly? 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 
The  earth  is  green,  or  white  with  snow, 
But  time  and  change  shall  naught  avail 
To  break  the  friendships  formed  at  Yale. 

In  after  life,  when  troubles  rise 

To  cloud  the  blue  of  sunny  skies, 

How  bright  will  seem  through  memory's  haze, 

Those  happy,  golden,  bygone  days; 


48 


GETTING  INTO  THE  BOTTLE 

Oh!  let  us  strive  that  ever  we 
May  let  these  words  our  watchcry  be : 
Where'er  upon  life's  sea  we  sail, 
For  God,  for  Country  and  for  Yale ! 


49 


PART  II 
INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 


THE  COMMISSION  AND  ITS  CHIEF — THE  C.  N. 
: — MOTOR  CARS — THE  AGGLOMERATION — 
THE  SLEUTHS — THE  DOCK  OFFICE — 
STAGING  THE  COMEDY 

SO  much  has  been  written  about  the  C. 
R.  B.  and  its  work  that  I  shall  try  to 
sketch  the  organization  in  the  fewest  pos- 
sible strokes.  We  were  in  Belgium  for  the 
ravitaillement,  wonderful  and  almost  un- 
translatable word.  Belgium  invaded,  her 
army  driven  to  the  Yser,  her  industries  para- 
lyzed, much  of  her  live  stock  requisitioned 
by  the  conquerors,  was  in  desperate  need. 
Then,  in  October,  1914,  the  C.  R.  B.  came 
into  being,  and  from  various  ports  in  the 
western  world  the  ships  flying  its  flag  began 
streaming  across  the  Atlantic,  laden  with  the 
53 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

yield  of  the  wheat  fields  of  Kansas  and  Can- 
ada, and  the  products  of  the  Chicago  stock- 
yards. 

To  the  helm  a  great  man  had  been  called. 
I  have  never  met  Herbert  Clark  Hoover. 
Three  days  before  I  landed  at  Falmouth  he 
sailed  for  the  United  States  from  Liverpool. 
Then  the  Belgian  Bottle  became  a  bottle 
with  a  sealed  cork.  When  I  reached  France 
in  April  he  was  in  England.  But  it  was 
not  necessary  to  meet  him  to  know.  The 
evidence  of  the  C.  R.  B.,  the  organization's 
unswerving  loyalty,  profound  belief,  deep 
seated  admiration,  were  enough.  If  they 
were  not  I  would  accept  the  verdict  of  the 
Belgian,  £mile  Francqui.  Once  the  wran- 
gling over  agreements  and  concessions  were 
more  than  usually  accute.  The  occupying 
military  authorities  felt  that  theirs  was  the 
whip  hand,  and  they  were  not  gentle  in  push- 
ing their  advantage.  The  Chief  bided  his 
54 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

time.  One  day,  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue, 
came  his  sweeping  order.  "Stop  the  work. 
Disband  the  Commission.  Send  the  men 
home."  He  had  seized  upon  the  exact 
moment,  the  one  hour  above  all  others  when 
the  Germans  stood  in  greatest  need  of  our 
work  for  the  Belgians.  Panic  stricken,  they 
yielded  upon  all  points.  When  Francqui 
heard  what  had  happened  his  hands  were 
tossed  skyward  in  astonished  tribute.  The 
equivalent  in  Americanese  of  his  comment 
was:  "Some  diplomat!" 

Rotterdam  was  the  C.  R.  B.  port  of  des- 
tination, and  from  there  the  cargoes  were 
distributed,  mostly  through  the  medium  of 
the  remarkable  canal  system,  to  the  various 
provinces  of  Belgium,  and  the  occupied  sec- 
tion of  the  North  of  France.  C.  R.  B.  of- 
fices were  maintained  in  New  York,  Lon- 
don, Paris,  Rotterdam  and  Brussels.  New 
York  saw  to  the  chartering  and  filling  of  the 
55 


BOTTLED  UP,  IN  BELGIUM 

ships.  London  and  Paris  nursed  them 
across  the  Atlantic.  Rotterdam  received 
them,  unloaded  them,  sent  them  back  again, 
and  then  forwarded  their  cargoes.  Brus- 
sels was  the  headquarters  at  the  front. 
From  there,  through  the  C.  R.  B.  and  the 
C.  N.,  the  food  was  passed  on  in  turn  to 
the  Provincial  Committees,  the  Regional 
Committees,  the  Communal  Committees. 
In  the  actual  work  of  food  distribution  and 
various  forms  of  inspection  over  forty  thou- 
sand Belgians  were  continually  engaged. 
Many  of  the  cooks  I  met  in  the  vast  kitchens 
where  the  daily  soup  for  the  needy  of  Brus- 
sels was  prepared  had  been,  in  days  of  peace, 
railway  employees.  In  Belgium  last  win- 
ter there  were  about  thirty  men,  who  were 
C.  R.  B.  delegates  in  the  strict  sense  of  the 
term.  A  delegate  gave  his  services.  His 
transportation  from  the  United  States  to 
Belgium  was  provided,  and  he  was  allowed 
56 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

a  certain  daily  sum  to  cover  the  actual  ex- 
penses of  habitation  and  food.  First  among 
the  delegates  were  the  Director,  Warren 
Gregory,  and  the  Assistant  Director,  Pren- 
tiss  Gray.  Both  Californians.  I  am  not 
going  to  tell  what  I  think  of  them,  because 
it  would  sound  like  fulsome  flattery  of  Mr. 
Hoover,  who  selected  them. 

Theirs  was  the  not-over-pleasant  task  of 
dealing  with  the  heads  of  the  occupying  gov- 
ernment. It  was  a  position  calling  for 
great  tact,  self-control,  and  a  saving  Amer- 
ican sense  of  humor.  But  there  were  times 
when  even  the  Director's  good  natured  pa- 
tience was  sorely  tried.  "You  people  have 
the  most  extraordinary  ideas  of  your  respon- 
sibilities," he  once  bluntly  told  the  Germans. 
I  think  the  occasion  was  a  covert  threat  at 
shutting  off  the  Belgian  food  supply  in  case 
the  Commission  did  not  yield  in  some  point 
at  issue.  At  another  time  a  clear  verbal 
57 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

agreement  was  reached  and  a  cablegram  to 
Mr.  Hoover  sent  outlining  that  agreement. 
A  few  days  later  the  Germans,  having 
thought  the  matter  over,  were  not  so  well 
pleased  with  the  pact.  The  expedient  to 
which  they  resorted  was  not  unfamiliar. 
The  director  must  have  been  mistaken. 
"It  is  not  surprising,"  explained  the  High 
Command  deprecatingly,  "I  English  so 
poorly  speak.  You  must  have  misunder- 
stood." But  suavely  smiling  the  Director 
pointed  out  that  His  Excellency's  excellent 
English  could  not  have  been  responsible. 
The  matter  had  long  ceased  to  be  one  of 
mere  verbal  contract.  His  Excellency's 
promise  had  been  embodied  in  the  message 
cabled  to  the  Chairman  of  the  Commission. 
That  cablegram  had  been  sent  by  German 
hands;  it  had  gone  forth  with  the  stamp, 
seal,  and  endorsement  of  the  Imperial  Ger- 
58 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

man  Government.  The  original  conversa- 
tion might  have  been  unofficial;  but  not  the 
message. 

Under  the  direction  of  the  Director  and 
Assistant  Director,  the  delegates  were  as- 
signed and  shifted.  There  were  the  North 
of  France  men.  A  North  of  France  man 
was  sent  to  Lille,  or  Saint-Quentin,  or  Val- 
enciennes, or  Charleville,  or  Longwy.  Day 
and  night  he  was  in  the  company  of  a  Ger- 
man officer.  The  two  had  desks  in  the  same 
office  and  occupied  adjoining  bedrooms. 
Somehow  or  other  the  officer  always  got  the 
best  desk  and  the  best  bedroom.  They 
breakfasted,  lunched,  dined  together.  They 
sat  side  by  side  in  the  back  seat  of  the  motor 
car.  If  the  officer  wished  to  hold  nightly 
revel  in  some  cafe,  he  had  to  persuade  the 
delegate  to  accompany  him.  The  American 
was  supposed  to  hold  no  communication 
59 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

with  any  unit  of  the  civil  population  save  in 
the  presence  of  his  officer.  It  was  a  Siamese 
twins  kind  of  existence. 

In  ones  or  twos,  according  to  the  size  or 
importance  of  the  region,  were  the  men  of 
the  Belgian  provinces,  the  men  who  lived  at 
Liege,  or  Namur,  or  Antwerp,  or  in  Luxem- 
bourg, or  Limbourg,  or  the  Hainault. 
They  came  to  Brussels  for  a  Thursday  con- 
ference with  the  Director.  The  North  of 
France  men's  day  at  the  capital  was  Satur- 
day. Living  in  Brussels  were  the  men  of 
the  Agglomeration  Bruxellois,  of  the  Bra- 
bant direction,  the  men  who  watched  the 
docks  and  the  mills,  the  men  who  overlooked 
the  distribution  of  clothing,  the  man  who 
looked  after  the  question  of  passports  and 
privileges  and  restrictions,  and  the  organi- 
zation's secretary.  Side  by  side  with  the 
C.  R.  B.  was  working  the  Comite  National, 
60 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

the  central  organization  by  which  the  Bel- 
gians were  helping  themselves. 

The  weekly  meeting  of  the  Comite  Na- 
tional was  also  on  Thursday  morning  im- 
mediately following  our  own  meeting.  We 
were  expected  to  go  from  one  to  the  other. 
In  the  cream  and  gold  salon  gathered  many 
of  the  most  important  men  of  Belgium. 
But  dominant  over  all,  like  a  martinet  of  a 
school  teacher  among  his  pupils,  was  the 
chairman  of  the  Committee,  iftmile  Francqui. 
"Watch  Francqui  ride  them"  was  whispered 
in  my  ear  the  morning  of  my  first  meeting 
as  we  took  our  seats  and  the  chairman  began 
the  reading  of  the  Ordre  du  Jour.  Ride 
them  he  certainly  did.  But  if  he  played  the 
role  of  a  dictator  he  was  getting  a  dictator's 
results,  and  the  situation  was  one  in  which 
a  strong  man  was  needed.  "Did  anything 
happen  at  the  meeting  to-day?"  once  asked 
61 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

an  American  delegate  who  had  arrived  just 
in  time  to  meet  us  filing  out.  "Happen! 
We  should  say  so,"  was  the  reply.  "Francqui 
apologized  to  M.  Tibbaut  for  having 
squelched  him  last  week." 

That  rare  sight  in  the  streets,  a  motor  car 
— in  all  the  city  of  Brussels  there  were  less 
than  a  hundred — was  almost  certain  to  be 
flying  either  the  flag  of  the  C.  N.  or  of  the 
C.  R.  B.  The  exceptions  were  the  cars  be- 
longing to  the  legations,  and  those  in  which 
rode  German  officers  of  exalted  rank.  The 
German  motor  cars  were  few  in  number 
but  they  were  astonishingly  conspicuous. 
Recall  certain  feelings  of  about  the  year 
1900  when  what  we  then  referred  to  as  a 
"red  devil"  dashed  from  a  side  street  across 
a  city  avenue,  or  thundered  wickedly  by 
frightened  horses  on  country  roads.  Very 
likely  that  murderous  rate  of  speed  was 
about  sixteen  miles  an  hour  and  if  you  were 
62 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

to  see  the  monster  to-day  with  its  short  wheel 
base,  its  snub  nosed  motor,  its  archaic  igni- 
tion and  its  high,  awkward  rear  entrance 
tonneau  you  would  be  moved  to  derisive 
laughter.  But  seventeen  or  eighteen  years 
ago  the  sight  of  it  and  the  sound  of  it  rasped 
the  nerves.  The  arrogance  of  its  bearing 
incited  social  unrest.  It  flaunted  high 
handed  prosperity  before  the  eyes  of  the 
poor.  It  was  an  agent  that  if  it  did  not 
hurry  the  coming  of  revolution,  was  at  least 
certain  to  impair  the  vigor  of  the  republic. 
And  that  is  how  the  German  driven  motor 
cars  affected  you  in  1917.  Long  before  the 
siren  screamed  its  commands  the  machine- 
gun  like  explosions  from  behind  warned  you 
of  the  car's  coming.  In  the  early  months 
of  the  German  occupation  the  cars  had  been 
equipped  with  a  musical  warning  device  that 
emitted  a  kind  of  flutelike  two  note  call. 
But  from  behind  cover  Belgian  small  boys 
63 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

answered  it  echoingly  with  the  words  "Paris- 
Berlin,"  and  in  a  short  time  the  device  was 
laughed  off  the  cars.  I  do  not  know 
whether  there  was  any  punishment  for  fail- 
ing to  make  way  at  once  for  any  overtaking 
German  car.  But  Louis,  the  chauffeur, 
took  no  chance.  The  Overland  would 
swerve  far  over  to  the  right  and  the  gray 
invader,  carrying  its  stiff,  rigidly  sitting  of- 
ficers would  graze  by.  The  driving  wheels 
were  always  double  tired.  "They  learned 
that  from  the  French,"  snorted  Louis. 
"They  never  thought  of  it  themselves. 
Sales  Boches!"  I  think  the  cars  got  even 
on  German  nerves  at  times.  But  it  was  in 
our  direction  that  the  hostile  glances  were 
directed.  "Nobody  goes  about  in  motors 
these  days,"  a  German  was  heard  to  grumble 
in  one  of  the  cafes,  "except  the  high-ups  and 
the  American  spies."  That  is  how  we  were 
regarded  long  before  the  break. 
64 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

On  my  arrival  I  was  destined  for  Liege, 
but  a  change  of  plan  assigned  me  to  the 
Agglomeration  Bruxellois,  and  I  found  my- 
self plunged  into  mysterious  problems  con- 
cerning milling  at  82  and  tamise  and  blutage 
and  goods  avaries.  The  head  of  the  depart- 
ment was  Jackson  of  Massachusetts.  I 
suspect  that  Jackson  was  not  the  best  of 
teachers.  I  know  that  I  was  one  of  the  most 
lamentable  of  pupils.  The  more  I  tried  to 
get  it  all  into  my  head,  the  more  hopelessly 
entangled  it  seemed.  Later  I  was  to  learn 
that  my  experience  had  been  exactly  the  ex- 
perience of  other  men.  Jackson  and  I 
wrangled,  and  we  snarled,  or,  worse  still,  we 
were  coldly  polite.  Never  mind,  Jackson, 
some  day  we  are  going  to  sit  down  at  a  table 
in  less  nerve- jangling  surroundings,  and 
laugh  over  my  lacerated  feelings  and  your 
irritated  feelings.  Then  maybe  you  will 
come  to  believe  that  I  am  not  such  a  drivel- 
65 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

ing  idiot  as  I  seemed  in  the  office  on  the 
second  floor  of  No.  66.  In  the  Agglomera- 
tion I  visited  soupes  scolaires  and  soupes 
populaires.  I  watched  the  Little  Bees  at 
their  work.  I  accompanied  the  inspectors 
on  their  rounds  of  the  bakeries. 

Especially  I  accompanied  my  two  inspec- 
tors. Mine,  because  of  them  I  shall  always 
think  with  a  feeling  of  proprietorship.  As- 
suming that  the  reader  has  some  acquaint- 
ance with  the  comic  supplement  of  Ameri- 
can newspapers,  imagine  a  Belgian  Mutt 
and  Jeff,  with  a  flavor  of  Alphonse  and 
Gaston.  It  goes  without  saying  that  one 
was  extremely  tall  and  the  other  comically 
short;  that  they  were  inseparable,  and  that 
each  complemented  the  other.  The  office 
understanding  their  qualities,  saw  that  they 
hunted  together.  They  quarreled  from 
time  to  time,  they  addressed  each  other  cere- 
moniously, and  their  manner  was  one  of  ex- 
66 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

aggerated  politeness.  Starting  out  for  the 
day's  work  the  first  delay  was  at  the  door  of 
the  little  elevator  of  No.  66.  There  was 
always  an  amiable  dispute  as  to  who  would 
enter  last.  It  was  not  "After  you,  my  dear 
Alphonse,"  but  "Je  vous  en  prie,  mon  cher 
monsieur."  No  one  not  a  Belgian  can  put 
into  that  "Je  vous  en  prie"  what  a  Belgian 
puts  into  it.  But  once  in  the  full  swing  of 
their  investigations,  they  were,  as  some  one 
in  the  office — I  think  it  was  Jackson — ex- 
pressed it  "Two  hounds  on  the  scent."  They 
loved  their  art.  Not  Sherlock  Holmes,  or 
Poe's  Dupin,  or  Gaboriau's  Lecoq,  or  Pere 
Tirauclair  ever  took  sleuthing  more  seri- 
ously. Their  investigations  led  not  along 
the  highways  of  crime,  but  figuratively  and 
literally  into  the  tortuous  narrow  streets. 
The  prey  they  were  stalking  was  the  baker 
who  was  putting  too  much  water  in  his 
bread;  or  who  was  concealing  in  his  cellar 
67 . 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

an  extra  sack  of  flour  in  order  to  sell  it  at 
an  augmented  price.  They  relied  on  unex- 
pected visits,  on  sudden  surprises,  in  which 
one  of  them  would  hold  the  baker  or  the 
baker's  wife  in  conversation,  while  the  other 
would  slip  in  through  a  side  door  to  investi- 
gate. Again  many  of  the  clews  on  which 
they  worked  were  furnished  by  the  anony- 
mous letters  of  denunciation,  of  which  a 
dozen  or  more  were  to  be  found  in  every 
morning's  mail.  But  their  joy  in  the  labor 
when  the  paling  cheek,  the  shifting  eye,  the 
faltering  voice  of  the  questioned  person 
seemed  to  promise  results.  "Ah,  Madame 
hesitates!  Madame  has  contradicted  her- 
self! Madame  denies  all  knowledge  of  the 
chef  in  the  restaurant  in  the  Rue  de  1' Arbre- 
Sec — when  it  seems  that  he  is  Madame's 
brother!  Madame  is  trembling!  Is  it  not 
so,  Monsieur  (this  appeal  directed  at  me) 
that  Madame  is  trembling?  You  see,  Ma- 
68 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

dame,  that  the  American  gentleman  who  has 
come  ten  thousand  miles  for  the  ravitaille- 
ment  perceives  that  you  are  trembling." 
Somehow  face  to  face  with  the  conflict,  its 
comparative  triviality  was  forgotten.  It 
was  a  matter  of  a  few  loaves  of  bread.  The 
probable  punishment  would  be  a  warning; 
the  maximum  punishment  a  month's  suspen- 
sion from  baking.  Yet  there  was  anguish 
in  the  woman's  twisting  face,  and  triumph 
gleaming  in  the  countenances  of  the  inspec- 
tors. And  as  we  emerged  from  the  dark- 
ened bakery  into  the  light  of  the  street  one 
or  the  other  of  my  companions  would  flash 
me  a  look.  It  was  like  Conan  Doyle's  hero 
commenting,  "Deep  waters,  Watson!"  or 
"This  time  I  have  found  a  foeman  worthy 
of  my  steel." 

The  aftermath  of  the  investigations  came 
in  the  bakers'  trials  that  were  held  every 
two  weeks  in  an  improvised  court  room  on 
69 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

the  second  floor  of  No.  66.  The  reports  of 
the  various  inspectors  would  be  weighed  and 
sifted,  the  past  records  of  the  persons  in- 
volved examined,  and  a  certain  number  of 
letters  sent  out  summoning  the  alleged  cul- 
prits before  the  tribunal.  Jackson  or  I  or 
both  of  us  were  expected  to  be  present  as 
representing  the  C.  R.  B.  although  the  part 
we  played  was  about  equivalent  to  that  of 
the  lay  judge  who  in  some  States  fattened 
on  the  American  courts  of  fifteen  or  twenty 
years  ago.  We  looked  wise,  severe,  re- 
proachful, or  sympathetic.  We  nodded 
gravely,  and  remarked  in  our  best  French, 
tfll  fait  semblant  de  ne  pas  comprendre" 
when  some  Fleming,  by  a  pretended  inabil- 
ity to  understand  his  own  or  any  other  lan- 
guage, sought  to  evade  the  searching  ques- 
tions. 

Also,  in  the  weeks  with  the  Agglomera- 
tion, I  learned  to  hold  the  loaves  knowingly 
70 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

against  my  ear  to  detect  the  presence  of  too 
much  water,  to  pronounce  judgment  as  to 
whether  it  was  well  or  poorly  baked.  I  ab- 
sorbed words  of  which  the  French  Academy 
is  probably  ignorant,  and  then  forgot  them. 
I  studied  the  charts  lining  the  corridors — 
the  charts  marking  the  ships  on  the  oceans, 
and  showing  the  amount  of  "riz,"  "sain- 
doux,"  "froment,"  "lard,"  and  sucre"  ex- 
pected. Then  the  delegate  who  had  what 
was  known  as  the  "dock  job"  started  for 
home  and  I  was  told  to  take  his  place.  My 
headquarters  was  my  desk  in  a  small  frame 
building  at  the  Bassin  Vergote. 

My  feeling  for  Brussels  is  not  that  of 
Leonard  Merrick,  who,  referring  to  Paris, 
says  somewhere  that  visiting  the  Belgian 
Capital  is  like  calling  on  the  sister  of  the 
woman  with  whom  you  are  in  love.  Some 
day,  not  too  far  in  the  future,  I  hope  to 
go  back,  to  find  a  beautiful  city  and  a  smil- 
71 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

ing  people.  Over  the  Palais  de  Justice  and 
the  Hotel  de  Ville  the  red,  yellow  and  black 
will  be  flying  instead  of  the  red,  white  and 
black.  The  public  clocks  of  the  land  will 
have  recovered  from  their  curious  malady 
and  will  be  ringing  out  the  Belgian  hours. 
If  I  am  haled  to  punishment  for  having 
attempted  to  sing  the  "Braban9onne,"  or 
the  "Marseillaise,"  or  "Tipperary,"  or 
"Yankee  Doodle"  in  a  public  place,  it  will 
be  because  of  the  quality  of  the  singing, 
and  not  on  account  of  the  nationality  of 
the  tune.  In  the  Taverne  Royale,  or  the 
Filet  of  Sole,  or  the  Shoulder  of  Mutton, 
I  shall  sit  down  to  dinner  with  a  blessed 
"Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night"  feeling. 
King  Albert  will  be  riding  out  from  the 
Palace,  and  bowing  and  saluting,  and  there 
will  be  no  gray-green  uniforms  in  the  streets, 
and  the  goose  step  will  be  far  away,  and 
in  blasted  villages  the  work  of  reconstruc- 
72 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

tion  will  be  going  on.  Then  there  will  be 
many  spots  to  be  revisited,  and  one  of  the 
very  first  will  be  that  wooden  shack  between 
the  vast  Hangars  where  I  spent  so  many 
hours  with  the  timid,  soft  voiced  De  Schut- 
ter,  and  Cambier  of  the  Assyrian  beard. 

To  that  shack  I  made  my  way  every  morn- 
ing, past  the  sentinels  at  the  grille.  Some- 
times I  was  challenged  and  sometimes  I  was 
not.  There  was  the  need  of  signing  many 
papers  as  the  C.  R.  B.  delegate.  Outside 
were  the  tasks  of  speeding  up  the  unloading 
of  the  alleges,  of  going  to  the  Hafenant,  the 
German  portmaster,  to  try  to  find  out  why 
this  hotelier  was  refused  his  papers  to  sail, 
and  that  one  to  unload — the  Belgians  of  the 
Dock  Office  could  not  be  dragged  to  the 
Hafenant's  office — of  visiting  the  freight 
station  in  search  of  incoming  C.  R.  B.  cars, 
and  the  great  mills  that  lie  to  the  north  of 
the  city  at  Schaarbeek  and  Haren  and  Vil- 
73 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

vorde.     It  was  on  one  of  my  first  mornings 
on  this  work  that  I  witnessed  a  comedy. 

The  papers  were  all  signed  and  there  was 
need  to  go  to  the  Trois  Fontaines  at  Vil- 
vorde  in  search  of  a  missing  freight  car. 
To  avoid  a  very  bad  bit  of  pave  in  the  most 
direct  way,  Louis,  the  chauffeur,  made  a 
wide  detour  through  Schaarbeek.  Passing 
a  building  that  stood  back  from  the  street, 
I  noticed  that  something  was  taking  place. 
I  told  Louis  to  turn  around  and  stop  in  a 
good  position  to  see.  It  was  a  public  build- 
ing of  some  kind,  a  school  I  think,  that  had 
been  taken  over  by  the  occupying  military 
authorities.  Three  sides  of  the  open  space 
were  lined  by  soldiers.  German  officers  de- 
scended the  steps,  walked  across  the  picture, 
turned,  walked  back  again,  and  reascended 
the  steps.  Then  more  German  officers,  then 
some  Bulgarian  officers  who  had  just  arrived 
in  Brussels,  then  more  Germans.  In  the 
74 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

middle  of  the  scene  was  a  little  line  of  ragged 
Belgian  men,  women  and  children.  They 
had  been  gathered  from  the  near-by  streets. 
They  seemed  much  frightened.  Appeared 
a  dozen  under  officers  and  privates  carrying 
loaves  of  bread.  These  they  thrust  into  the 
hands  of  the  people  in  the  line,  while  in  a 
corner  the  clicking  camera  recorded  the 
touching  scene,  to  be  shown  in  Germany  and 
Austria  and  in  neutral  countries  throughout 
the  world,  of  "Kind  Hearted  Prussians 
Feeding  the  Belgian  Populace."  That  was 
what  the  camera  showed.  But  what  it  did 
not  show  were  the  fields  of  Kansas  and 
Manitoba,  or  the.  ships  of  the  American 
Commission  that  had  brought  the  wheat  that 
had  been  converted  into  the  flour  from  which 
those  loaves  were  made,  or  the  American 
dollar  sign  indicating  who  had  paid  for  the 
loaves,  or  even  the  Belgian  agents  to  whom 
the  distribution  was  the  morning  and  even- 
75 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

ing  work.  That  day  these  agents  had  been 
thrust  aside  and  their  bread  taken  from 
them.  "On  this  occasion,"  they  were  told, 
"our  soldiers  will  perform  your  task.  You 
can  leave  the  loaves  and  go  home."  When 
I  returned  to  the  C.  R.  B.  office  for  lunch, 
I  thought  I  had  a  story  to  tell.  I  was  dis- 
appointed when  my  description  fell  rather 
flat.  "We  have  heard  all  about  it  before," 
men  informed  me.  "That  comedy  is  being 
staged  from  time  to  time  all  over  Belgium. 
We  don't  mind  their  taking  pictures  but  we 
wish  they  would  leave  our  bread  alone." 

It  was  some  such  sort  of  a  stage  setting, 
on  a  wider  and  more  varied  scale,  that  was 
prepared  and  manipulated  early  in  the  war 
for  the  benefit  of  a  group  of  influential 
American  correspondents.  The  older  men 
of  the  C.  R.  B.  would  laugh  if  a  newcomer 
quoted  in  favor  of  the  Germans  some  of  the 
testimony  that  had  been  offered  in  all  sin- 
76 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

cerity  and  honesty  by  those  "eye-witnesses." 
The  immortal  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  on  the 
eve  of  his  ascent  of  the  Jungfrau,  listened 
to  the  voice  of  Bompard,  and  was  persuaded 
that  Switzerland  did  not  exist.  The  Amer- 
ican journalists,  taken  along  a  path  that  had 
been  arranged  for  their  reception — a  path 
of  untouched  villages  and  well  coached  peas- 
ants— were  almost  ready  to  cry  aloud  to  the 
world,  "Belgium!  There  is  no  Belgium!" 


77 


II 

GERMAN  OFFICERS 

"\  If  THAT  are  the  German  officers 
\  \  like?  What  is  their  behavior 
in  Belgium?  What  is  their  version  of  the 
origin  of  the  war,  and  what  are  their  ex- 
planations of  the  amazing  manner  in  which 
the  Imperial  Government  has  conducted  it?'* 
These  are  questions  which  have  been  asked 
repeatedly.  During  the  time  that  I  was  in 
Brussels  I  met  perhaps  twenty  German  offi- 
cers. I  talked  with  eight  or  ten  of  them. 
They  seemed  quite  willing  to  be  led  into  a 
discussion  of  the  war,  but  we  had  been 
warned  to  avoid  the  subject  as  a  dangerous 
one.  Consequently  for  my  impressions  of 
the  German  officers  and  their  mental  process 
78 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

I  am  drawing  mostly  on  what  has  been  told 
me  by  other  men  of  the  C.  R.  B.,  especially 
the  men  of  the  North  of  France.  But  there 
are  certain  memories  which  we  all  of  us 
took  away,  no  matter  how  slight  and  short- 
lived was  the  acquaintance.  We  recall,  save 
in  one  or  two  cases,  an  artificial  politeness, 
an  attempt  at  bonhomie  which  hardly  con- 
cealed the  sneer.  "  'What  is  German  mili- 
tarism?' I  will  tell  you.  It  is  order,  disci- 
pline, obedience."  That  is  always  and  ever 
the  refrain.  That  covers  all,  explains  all, 
justifies  all.  To  them  these  virtues  exist 
nowhere  else  in  the  world.  We,  in  particu- 
lar, are  barbarians.  There  had  been  some 
slight  infraction  of  one  of  the  ninety  and 
nine  thousand  rules  that  govern  life  in  Bel- 
gium by  a  member  of  the  C.  R.  B.  and  at 
the  headquarters  in  the  Place  Royale  Major 
B.  was  storming  at  Sperry  of  California. 
S  perry  was  not  the  offender,  but  as  he  was 
79 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

the  passport  man,  official  abuse  usually  de- 
scended upon  his  head.  But  a  sense  of 
humor  had  Sperry,  and  he  bore  it  all  stoi- 
cally. "You  come  from  a  country  and  a 
wild  Western  State  where  you  have  no  laws," 
so  ran  the  indictment.  "You  don't  under- 
stand what  laws  are  or  what  they  are  made 
for.  Don't  you  know  there  is  a  war?"  "It 
seems  to  me,"  replied  Sperry  softly,  "that  I 
have  heard  of  it."  "Heard  of  it!"  Major 
B.  exploded.  "I  think  we  have  heard  of  it. 
We  have  lost  a  million  men." 

Maverick  was  one  of  the  last  men  to  be 
recalled  from  his  North  of  France  post. 
Jokingly  he  told  the  German  officers  that 
he  was  thinking  of  trying  to  get  a  commis- 
sion in  the  British  army.  "Don't  do  that," 
they  said;  "if  you  must  do  something,  try 
for  one  in  the  French  army.  Then  we 
might  possibly  be  friends  again  some  time  in 
the  future."  One  day  when  the  crisis  was 
80 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

becoming  acute,  Maverick  imparted  a  con- 
fidence to  his  officer.  With  a  perfectly 
straight  face  he  told  him  that  he  had  received 
information  that  the  Government  at  Wash- 
ington had  decided  to  recall  the  United 
States  Consul  to  Hoboken.  Although  he 
had  lived  some  years  in  England — perhaps 
by  reason  of  that — and  had  crossed  the  At- 
lantic, the  officer  received  the  news  with  per- 
fect gravity.  "The  step,"  he  acknowledged, 
"indicates  the  seriousness  of  the  situation." 
As  hours  passed,  however,  his  countenance 
took  on  a  puzzled  look.  He  maintained  a 
persistent,  almost  gloomy,  silence.  He 
communed  wonderingly  with  himself. 
Sometime  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following 
day  a  light  broke  over  his  face.  "I  have 
just  discovered,"  he  said,  "that  the  United 
States  Consul  to  Hoboken  is  a  joke." 

Entering  the  Representatives  Room  in 
the  offices  it  would  be  often  to  find  one  of 
81 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

the  chairs  occupied  by  a  uniform.  The  face 
would  be  that  of  a  stranger.  The  stiff  in- 
troduction announced  the  visitor  as  Ritt 
Meister  Blank  or  Oberlieutenant  Dash. 
That  was  another  matter.  At  times  the 
smile  was  hard  to  restrain.  There  flashed 
a  dozen  details  of  description,  quotations  of 
conversation,  imparted  to  me  of  evenings  be- 
fore the  inadequate  hearth  fire  of  No. 
126.  It  might  be  Fletcher's  officer,  the  one 
with  whom  "Luke"  had  spent  four  months 
at  Longwy,  and  made  that  trip  into  Ger- 
many, the  hero  of  such  and  such  an  episode 
in  the  Hotel  Adlon  in  Berlin.  Again  the 
scrutinizing  monocle  and  the  highly  ex- 
tended hand  brought  to  mind  "Oh,  you  are 
the  guy  they  describe  as  all  right  from  your 
head  up  and  from  your  feet  down."  Or 
the  mental  observation  would  be  "Well,  you 
certainly  don't  look  as  if  you  hated  your- 
self, but  Phil  Potter  says  that  you  are  not 
82 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

such  a  bad  sort,  and  if  Phil  Potter  says  that, 
I  will  reserve  judgment."  The  situation 
was  one  where  the  American  delegate,  espe- 
cially when,  as  in  my  case,  he  was  a  late 
arrival,  was  always  at  a  decided  advantage. 
There  was  one  officer,  met  this  way,  who  in- 
sisted on  talking  during  the  ten  minutes  we 
were  alone  together,  of  Canada  and  the  ob- 
vious opportunities  of  the  United  States  in 
that  direction.  Why  had  we  not  taken  ad- 
vantage of  them.  England's  hands  were 
busy,  the  Dominion  heavily  weakened,  such 
a  chance  might  never  come  again.  When  I 
told  him  that  one  old  woman  with  a  broom- 
stick at  the  frontier  would  be  ample  military 
protection  for  Canada  so  far  as  any  aggres- 
sion on  the  part  of  the  United  States  was 
concerned,  he  looked  at  me  sharply,  and 
changed  the  subject.  I  was  either  deep,  or 
an  utter  fool. 

There  are  certain  ones  among  the  German 
83 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

officers  that  I  met  that  I  particularly  recall. 
At  headquarters,  Major  B.  and  Captain  S., 
the  latter  a  little  man  with  searching,  sus- 
picious eyes,  perhaps  made  so  by  his  scrutiny 
of  every  new  American  delegate  who  came 
in.  There  was  Graf  von  M.,  of  the  Prus- 
sian branch  of  the  famous  Austrian  family. 
He  was  extremely  handsome,  of  a  Rupert 
of  Hentzau  type,  and  perhaps  personally 
the  German  officer  in  Brussels  the  most 
hated  by  the  Belgians.  Among  his  exploits 
was  the  having  sent  to  prison  in  Germany 
for  three  months  two  young  girls  belonging 
to  excellent  Belgian  families.  He  had  tried 
to  speak  to  them  on  the  street  one  evening 
and  they  had  referred  to  him  as  a  sale  Boche. 
There  was  the  monocled  Captain  Graf  von 
G.,  typically  Prussian  in  his  morgue.  There 
was  Captain  N".,  in  former  days  one  of  the 
heads  of  the  Hamburg- American  office  in 
London.  He  had  an  English  wife,  and  chil- 
84 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

dren,  with  whom  he  had  had  no  communi- 
cation since  July,  1914.  There  was  Cap- 
tain W.,  himself  half  English  and  cursing 
England  with  a  vehemence  that  singled  him 
out  even  among  men  whose  souls  were  so  at- 
tuned to  the  Hymn  of  Hate.  There  was 
Captain  B.,  Tie  of  the  duck  legs,  the  pleas- 
antest  memory  of  all,  of  whom  more  later. 
There  was  Oberlieutenant  L.,  who  was  to 
take  us  out  of  Belgium,  across  Germany, 
and  deliver  us  over  to  Swiss  soil.  There  was 
Oberlieutenant  F.,  dancing  and  debonair. 
I  can  see  him  now,  executing  that  jig  step 
in  the  great  dining  room  of  the  Palace  Hotel 
our  last  night  in  Brussels.  Also  I  know 
what  the  morning  brought — what  so  many 
other  mornings  had  brought.  He  would 
wake  up  in  bed  with  nothing  on  but  his  Hus- 
sar boots.  Remorse  and  good  resolutions 
would  be  born  of  the  aching  head  and  the 
trembling  fingers.  He  would  reach  out  for 
85 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

the  handglass  that  was  always  with  him, 
and  studying  the  reflection  with  melancholy 
eyes  would  murmur,  "Finkey,  Finkey,  you 
naughty  Hun!" 

Not  everywhere  had  the  invaders  pene- 
trated. There  were  great  houses  in  the 
provinces  that  had  been  spared,  and  at  which 
many  of  the  American  delegates  were  roy- 
ally entertained.  There  were  house  parties 
in  the  Ardennes,  in  Limbourg,  in  Luxem- 
bourg. The  element  of  romance  was  not 
entirely  lacking.  One  or  two  of  the  Ameri- 
cans had  acquired  Belgian  wives.  At  the 
time  of  our  departure  there  were  engage- 
ments in  the  air.  One  of  the  weekly  meet- 
ings in  the  Brussels  office  was  held  at  a  time 
when  the  complications  due  to  the  severance 
of  relations  impaired  our  future  usefulness 
in  the  work,  but  when  it  was  not  yet  a  cer- 
tainty that  there  would  be  actual  war.  The 
Director,  outlining  the  general  situation, 
86 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

pointed  out  the  necessity  of  leaving  the 
country,  but  added,  with  a  meaning  smile, 
that  if  there  were  any  men  who  for  personal 
reasons  wished  to  stay  behind  they  were  to 
tell  him  privately.  Two  or  three  delegates 
with  exceedingly  guilty  countenances  were 
the  only  ones  who  did  not  participate  in  the 
laughter.  To  the  everlasting  credit  of  the 
C.  R.  B.  it  is  to  be  recorded  that,  with  one 
or  two  exceptions,  very  early  in  the  war, 
neither  Belgian  hospitality  nor  Belgian  con- 
fidences was  ever  abused.  With  a  sense  of 
absolute  security  a  host  would  impart  to  his 
American  guests  information  that  divulged 
would  have  meant  for  him  a  German  prison 
or  worse.  He  would  have  been  far  more 
guarded  with  a  Belgian  who  did  not  belong 
to  his  own  intimate  circle.  On  these  Bel- 
gians of  wealth  and  position  the  burden  of 
the  war  had  been  heavy.  But  the  first  sym- 
pathy is  not  for  them.  They  managed  to 
87 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

continue  to  live  in  material  comfort.  Ar- 
rowsmith,  dining  in  a  country  house,  ex- 
pressed his  appreciation  of  a  certain  wine. 
"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  you  have  very 
little  of  it  left."  The  host  shook  his  head 
sadty.  "Unfortunately,  there  remain  but 
ten  thousand  bottles." 

The  lot  of  the  Belgians  of  the  higher 
classes  would  have  been  easier,  the  restric- 
tions fewer,  had  they  been  willing  to  receive 
the  invaders  socially.  "I  have  brought  my 
evening  clothes,"  explained  many  a  young 
German  officer,  his  first  day  in  the  household 
on  which  he  was  billeted.  He  was  pained 
and  puzzled  at  the  lack  of  response.  The 
German  officers  were  always  wondering  why 
the  Belgians  did  not  like  them.  They  had 
been  received  in  Belgian  houses  before  the 
war.  Why  should  such  a  triviality  as  an 
.invasion  make  any  difference?  The  Ameri- 
can in  H.  G.  Wells's  "Mr.  Britling  Sees  It 
88 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

Through"  said  that  he  had  always  consid- 
ered war  as  a  kind  of  game  in  which  two 
picked  teams  did  the  fighting  while  other 
people  looked  on.  To  listen  to  many  of  the 
German  officers  you  would  have  thought 
that  this  war  had  been  conducted  that  way. 
They  talked  about  its  end  as  of  the  finish  of  a 
knightly  joust,  carried  out  with  all  courtesy 
and  ceremony,  after  which  victor  and  van- 
quished sit  down  for  wassail  at  the  groan- 
ing board.  "If  it  were  over  to-morrow  I 
would  be  in  Paris  in  a  week.  I  have  not 
been  there  since  1911.  I  want  to  see  the 
boulevards  and  eat  filet  of  sole  a  la  Mar- 
guery  at  Marguery's,"  said  one.  Others 
liked  to  picture  themselves  in  Regent  Street 
of  Piccadilly  in  the  near  future,  no  longer  as 
conquerors,  but  as  welcome  guests.  All  ex- 
pected to  take  up  the  threads  of  cosmopoli- 
tan life  as  they  were  before  August,  1914. 
They  could  not  understand  why  the  French 
89 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

did  not  like  them.  "Do  you  think  that  you 
and  the  French  will  ever  be  friends?"  I  once 
rather  maliciously  asked  the  best  of  them, 
Captain  B.  He  shook  his  head  rather  sadly. 
"I  am  afraid  not,  and  we  have  always 
wanted  to  be  friends  with  them,  and  have 
tried  so  hard."  And  he  believed  it ! 

They  were  puzzled  by  America's  lack  of 
sympathy.  They  wanted  explanations  and 
nagged  in  their  persistence.  There  were 
times  when  the  strain  of  silence  was  hard. 
"I  wish,"  said  Fletcher  of  California,  after 
long  restraint,  "that  you  wouldn't  talk  the 
way  you  do  about  our  President.  You 
haven't  heard  me  say  anything  about  the 
Kaiser.  And,  after  all,  we  elected  our 
President,  while  you  had  your  Kaiser  wished 
on  you."  Brand  Whitlock  told  me  that 
again  and  again  those  questions  "Why  don't 
your  people  like  us?  Why  are  you  not  on 
our  side?"  had  been  thrust  on  him.  Finally 
90 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

one  day  he  spoke  out:  "Because  you  seem  to 
have  the  faculty  of  always  doing  the  wrong 
thing,  just  what  will  grate  and  hurt  the  most. 
Take  the  Lusitania,  for  example.  It  was 
the  one  ship  not  flying  the  American  flag 
that  you  should  have  not  selected  for  destruc- 
tion if  you  wished  to  retain  our  friendship. 
No  other  transatlantic  liner  of  England  or 
France  would  have  been  the  same.  You 
might  have  sunk  the  Mauretania,  the  Lusi- 
tanias  twin  sister,  without  rousing  half  the 
feeling.  But  the  Lusitania  had  been  al- 
ways regarded  as  sentimentally  an  Ameri- 
can boat.  Every  traveling  American  had 
crossed  on  her  or  had  relatives  or  close 
friends  who  had  done  so.  The  torpedo  that 
sent  her  to  the  bottom  of  the  Irish  sea  struck 
us  to  the  heart." 

The  Grand  Duchy  of  Luxembourg  has 
been,  since  August,  1914,  subjected  to  the 
annoyances  and  hardships  of  war,  but  not  to 
91 


its  horrors.  Possessing  a  standing  army 
only  slightly  larger  than  the  standing  army 
that  was  cuffed  and  kicked  by  Namgay 
Doola  in  the  Kipling  story,  it  formally  pro- 
tested against  the  passage  of  the  Germans. 
Without  undue  violence  a  platoon  of  the 
gray-green  clad  men  lifted  the  standing 
army  blocking  the  road  over  the  hedge  into 
an  adjoining  field,  and  after  a  few  seconds' 
delay,  the  hosts  of  the  Kaiser  marched  on. 
Luxembourg  bowed  to  the  inevitable.  Had 
not  the  protest  saved  the  national  honor? 
The  occupation  was  irksome,  residences 
"borrowed"  for  the  use  of  invaders  of  ex- 
alted rank  had  been  left  in  a  state  positively 
indescribable,  but  there  was  very  little  loot- 
ing, and  no  burning  or  bloodshed.  To  Lux- 
embourg the  German  officers  were  always 
pointing  as  an  example  of  what  Belgium's 
lot  would  have  been  had  it  yielded  to  Ger- 
man demands.  Once  our  Minister  to  the 
92 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

Hague,  Dr.  Henry  Van  Dyke,  paid  a  visit 
to  the  Grand  Duchy.  With  that  almost 
child-like  eagerness  for  praise  that  is  curi- 
ously characteristic,  the  Germans  angled  for 
his  expressions  of  approval.  Finally  came 
the  direct  question.  "What  do  the  people 
have  to  say  of  the  behavior  of  our  soldiers?" 

"It  is  not,"  replied  Dr.  Van  Dyke  with 
icy  politeness,  "to  your  behavior  that  they 
object.  It  is  to  your  presence." 

To  one  fault  the  German  authorities 
seemed  to  be  charitably  lenient.  Months 
before  my  arrival  in  Belgium  there  had  been 
a  row  involving  one  of  the  C.  R.  B.  dele- 
gates. I  never  knew  the  details  of  the  epi- 
sode, but  for  a  time  it  threatened  to  end 
very  seriously  for  the  American.  The 
Minister  hurried  to  Headquarters  in  the  hope 
of  smoothing  over  the  affair.  But  there  was 
the  doctrine  of  blood  and  iron  in  the  smash- 
ing of  the  heavy  fist  on  the  table.  "He  has 
93 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

a  German  officer  insulted.  To  prison  he 
must  go.  It  is  a  chose  jugee"  Finally,  to 
Mr.  Whitlock  it  seemed  as  if  the  last  card 
had  been  played,  that  further  pleading  would 
be  a  waste  of  precious  time.  He  rose  to 
leave.  "The  fact  is,"  he  conceded,  "the 
young  man  was  drunk."  Over  the  hard, 
set  face  of  the  German  there  came  a  change. 
The  jaw  relaxed  into  something  like  a  smile. 
"Why  did  you  not  acquaint  me  with  that 
important — that  exceedingly  important  fact 
before?"  he  asked.  "Now  I  understand. 
Young  men  must  have  their  pleasure.  If  he 
was  drunk  it  is  another  matter.  To  prison 
he  shall  not  go." 


Ill 

MOKE  GEKMAN  OFFICEES 

THE  German  officers  as  well  as  the 
German  soldiers  were  frank  in  their 
expressions  of  disappointment  at  the  failure 
of  the  Kaiser's  peace  overtures.  They 
maintained  that  the  war  was  really  over,  that 
Germany  had  won  it,  that  the  crushing  of 
Roumania  was  the  coup  de  grace.  It  was 
only  the  criminal  obstinacy  of  the  Entente 
Allies  that  was  prolonging  the  bloodshed. 
Provoked  Germany  had  dealt  the  blow  in 
self-defense.  The  Kaiser  was  the  most 
peace-loving  man  in  the  world.  There 
never  would  have  been  any  war  had  it  not 
been  for  the  scheming  of  British  tradesmen, 
jealous  of  the  rising  German  power  and 
95 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

commerce.  The  destruction  of  Louvain 
and  other  cities  in  Belgium  and  the  North 
of  France  was  justified.  The  Generals  of 
Louis  XIV  had  burned  villages  in  the  Pala- 
tinate. "But  that  was  more  than  two  hun- 
dred years  ago."  "True,  but  to  understand 
Germany,  you  must  think  in  centuries." 

Of  course  it  was  impossible  to  know  just 
how  deep  and  widespread  was  the  actual 
spirit  of  unrest  among  the  German  officers 
and  men.  One  day  in  March,  Meert  of  the 
Brabant  Department,  appeared  at  the 
luncheon  table  with  a  curious  story.  In  the 
tram  that  had  brought  him  to  the  office  there 
had  been  a  German  private,  the  only  uni- 
form in  the  car.  He  was  drunk,  maudlinly 
and  sentimentally  drunk.  He  was  exceed- 
ingly anxious  to  impart  his  sorrows  and  his 
disappointments  to  the  Belgians  about  him. 
So  in  French,  with  a  very  German  flavor, 
he  kept  repeating  over  and  over:  "Le  Kaiser 
96 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

a  dit  que  nous  sommes  victorieuse.  Ce  n'est 
pas  vrai.  Nous  sommes  foutus"  "The 
Kaiser  says  that  we  are  victorious.  It  is  not 
true.  We  are  done  for." 

One  of  the  C.  R.  B.  men  in  touch  with 
Antwerp — was  it  Gardner  Richardson — was 
in  that  city  when  the  news  of  the  Russian 
revolution  came.  At  a  near-by  table  in  the 
restaurant  where  he  was  dining  was  a  group 
of  middle  aged  German  officers.  There 
came  in  to  join  them  a  very  much  excited 
young  officer  waving  a  German  newspaper 
and  pointing  to  the  head  lines.  But  instead 
of  the  expected  enthusiasm  he  was  greeted 
with  grumpy  silence.  "What  is  the  mat- 
ter? Are  you  not  pleased  with  the  news?" 
asked  the  newcomer.  "Pleased" !  grumbled 
one  of  the  older  men.  "Why  should  we  be 
pleased?  The  first  thing  you  know  we  will 
be  seeing  that  kind  of  thing  in  Berlin." 

From  the  military  point  of  view,  the  Ger- 
97 


man  officers  were  profoundly  impressed  by 
General  Nivelle's  Verdun  attack  of  last  au- 
tumn, when  the  French,  in  the  space  of  fifty 
minutes,  retook  what  the  Germans  had  won 
by  five  months  of  incessant  labor  and  the  sac- 
rifice of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  lives.  It 
was  to  them  the  action  of  the  war,  but  they 
ascribed  it  partially  to  luck,  and  were  sure 
that  it  would  never  recur,  for,  they  said,  there 
has  never  been  before  and  there  could  never 
be  again  such  marvelous  coordination  be- 
tween the  infantry,  the  artillery  and  the  air 
forces.  "Our  men  were  powerless,  over- 
whelmed, they  could  do  nothing  but  surren- 
der." Later  I  was  to  hear  this  verdict  cor- 
roborated from  the  other  side,  from  the  lips 
of  American  Ambulance  drivers  in  Paris. 
The  French  infantry,  the  Americans  said, 
really  had  nothing  to  do  except  to  direct  the 
prisoners  to  the  rear.  Their  airmen  and 
their  guns  had  made  resistance  impossible. 
98 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

The  very  ease  of  the  advance  was  the  cause 
of  the  only  losses.  The  men  unintentionally 
disobeyed  orders.  They  were  told  to  stop 
at  a  certain  point,  but  in  their  eagerness  they 
went  beyond.  Many  of  them  fell  under  the 
firing  of  their  own  artillery. 

Of  all  the  German  officers  with  whom  the 
men  of  the  C.  R.  B.  were  thrown  in  con- 
tact, unquestionably  the  most  genuinely 
liked  was  Captain  B.  The  eighteenth  of  last 
February  three  or  four  of  us  with  B.  were 
lunching  in  the  Taverne  Roy  ale.  After 
many  toasts,  we  pledged  to  meet  for  an  early 
morning  supper  at  Jack's  in  New  York 
February  18th,  1918.  I  have  often  won- 
dered since  if  that  appointment  is  kept  just 
what  will  the  conditions  be.  Every  one 
who  had  been  associated  with  B.  spoke  of 
his  fairness  and  his  kindness.  He  had  some- 
thing of  the  politeness  of  the  heart.  Under 
his  good  manners  you  never  detected  the 
99 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

sneer.  I  am  sure  it  was  not  there.  In  that 
he  was  the  exception.  But  despite  his  uni- 
form, of  which  he  was  immensely  vain, — 
the  girls  in  the  Bodegas  used  to  amuse  them- 
selves hugely  playing  upon  his  weakness, — 
and  the  clanking  sword  which  was  too  long 
for  his  short  legs,  and  over  which  he  was  al- 
ways stumbling,  he  never  gave  the  impres- 
sion of  being  a  soldier.  War  did  not  disturb 
him  much,  at  least  not  after  the  middle  of 
the  day.  The  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning 
bottle  of  champagne  had  started  him  on  the 
road  to  complete  beatitude.  Reenforce- 
ments  were  constantly  coming  up.  By  two 
or  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  he  was 
dreaming  that  he  was  in  Paris,  sipping  a 
liqueur  at  the  corner  table  of  the  Cafe  de 
la  Paix,  and  looking  down  the  Avenue  of 
the  Opera.  Leach  of  California  was  the 
delegate  at  one  time  stationed  in  Lille.  B. 
was  his  officer.  The  city  was  too  near  the 
100 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

English  guns  and  they  lived  at  Tournai. 
Leach  used  to  say  that  one  of  his  most  ex- 
acting duties  was,  when  they  were  riding  to- 
gether in  the  motor,  nudging  B.  in  the  ribs 
in  order  to  inform  him  when  to  return  a  sa- 
lute. There  would  be  an  automatic  stiffen- 
ing up,  the  hand  would  go  to  the  helmet, 
then  drop,  and  in  a  second  the  officer  would 
again  be  in  a  peaceful,  happy  slumber. 
Once  an  opera  company  from  Berlin  played 
in  the  Lille  Opera  House.  The  first  night 
the  German  officers  attended  in  a  body. 
The  English,  eight  or  ten  miles  away,  had 
learned  of  the  performance,  and  dropped  a 
shell  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  theater. 
Captain  B.  invited  Leach  to  attend  the  per- 
formance for  the  second  night.  Leach 
promptly  accepted  the  invitation.  All  day 
long  the  officer  amused  himself  by  picturing 
the  possible,  or  probable,  explosion.  It  was 
to  be  wrought,  of  course,  by  a  shell  made  in 
101 


America.  "I  drink  to  that  shell,"  he  said 
again  and  again.  By  the  time  the  curtain 
went  up,  he  had  passed  away  to  a  realm  be- 
yond the  reach  of  worry.  "He  was  smiling 
in  his  sleep.  There  I  sat  by  his  side  in  the 
box,  the  only  civilian  in  the  house,  waiting 
every  minute  for  the  crash  to  come."  In 
Paris,  one  morning  in  April,  Leach  called  to 
me  from  a  table  as  I  was  passing  the  Cafe 
de  la  Paix.  He  was  greatly  pleased.  He 
had  got  what  he  wanted — Leach  was  a  sur- 
geon— a  position  with  the  American  Hos- 
pital Corps  that  would  enable  him  to  go  up 
close  behind  the  British  and  French  fronts. 
He  would  now  have  an  opportunity  given  to 
few  men.  He  would  see  the  same  country 
that  he  had  seen  before  but  this  time  from 
the  other  side  of  the  fighting  line.  As  he 
talked  of  his  prospects,  his  face  broke  into  a 
whimsical  smile.  He  explained:  "I  just 
want  to  see  B.'s  little  duck  legs  scampering 
102 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

in  my  direction.  I  want  to  hear  him  crying 
'Kameraden!  Kameraden!'  Sure  I'll  give 
him  the  glad  hand.'* 


103 


IV 

BEYOND   THE   MAGIC   DOOR — WAR   BOOKS 
AND   OTHERS — THE  OLD   AFFICHES 

PERHAPS  some  of  the  happiest  hours 
in  Belgium  were  those  evenings  be- 
yond the  magic  door,  when  the  temperature 
was  in  a  comparatively  kindly  mood,  when 
only  one  or  two  of  us  were  at  home,  and 
we  could  browse  among  the  bookshelves  that 
lined  three  sides  of  the  living  room  of  No. 
126.  There  were  the  heavily  bound  books 
of  the  owner  of  the  house,  books  in  three  lan- 
guages denoting  his  cosmopolitanism  of 
taste,  and  there  were  the  accumulations  of 
two  years  of  American  occupation.  Many 
times,  in  many  places,  I  had  pored  over  the 
pages  of  "Vanity  Fair."  Now,  to  take 
104 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

down  from  a  shelf  the  "novel  without  a  hero" 
in  gorgeous  binding,  to  turn  to  certain  famil- 
iar chapters,  brought  a  new  sensation.  I 
re-read  the  pages  describing  the  great  ball 
on  the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  the 
lines  describing  how  William  Dobbin  tried 
to  drag  George  Osborne  away  from  the  rout, 
whispering  "The  enemy  has  crossed  the 
Sambre.  Our  left  is  already  engaged. 
We  are  to  march  in  three  hours."  That 
very  morning  perhaps,  I  had,  accompanying 
Sperry,  climbed  the  actual  staircase  of  the 
scene,  past  men  of  the  German  Landsturm, 
and  lines  of  waiting  Belgians.  The  quaint, 
awkward  drawing  in  Thackeray's  own  hand 
showed  Major  and  Mrs.  O'Dowd  at  the 
flower  market  in  the  Grand  Place.  By 
hardly  a  stone  the  square  of  June,  1815,  dif- 
fered from  the  square  I  had  thrice  crossed, 
that  same  day,  almost  one  hundred  and  two 
years  later.  My  eyes  were  skimming  the 
105 


sentences  telling  how,  through  the  open 
windows,  came  a  dull  distant  sound  over  the 
sun  lighted  roofs  to  the  southward,  how 
"God  defend  us,  it's  cannon"!  Mrs.  O'Dowd 
cried,  and  how  a  thousand  pale  and  anxious 
faces  might  be  seen  looking  from  other  case- 
ments. The  reading  was  interrupted. 
Leach,  sitting  six  feet  away,  had  laid  down 
his  own  book.  "Listen,"  he  said.  "Did  you 
catch  that?  It's  the  third  time  this  evening 
I've  heard  the  guns  around  Lille." 

There  were  on  the  shelves  the  solid  tomes 
of  history  and  poetry,  which  did  not  receive 
any  great  amount  of  attention;  there  were 
on  the  table  heavy  atlases,  and  sprawling 
across  the  most  comfortable  sofas  loose 
maps,  on  which  we  moved  about  little  paper 
pins,  indicating  the  changes  in  Roumania, 
Persia,  and  on  the  Russian,  Italian,  and 
Western  fronts  of  which  the  latest  news  re- 
ceived had  apprised  us.  There  were  the 
106 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

piles  of  copies  of  London  "Punch,"  the  lat- 
est issue  one  of  July,  1914.  There  was  a 
varied  collection  of  French  novels,  with 
rather  luridly  illustrated  covers,  books  of  the 
type  of  the  sprightly  "Famille  Cardinal," 
which  would  introduce  to  American  readers 
a  M.  Ludovic  Halevy  surprisingly  differ- 
ent from  the  one  they  know  as  the  author  of 
"L.  Abbe  Constantin."  But  there  was  one 
set  of  little  books  which  drew  us  back  from 
the  happier  past  to  the  grim  realities  of  the 
present. 

There  were  two  books  that  I  had  read  at 
home  in  the  earlier  days  of  the  war  that 
dealt,  in  what  might  be  called  the  Jules 
Verne  manner,  with  Germanic  dreams  and 
aspirations  of  conquest.  One  was  "Frank- 
reich's  Ende  in  Jahre  19 — "  published  in 
1912,  and  the  other  "Hindenberg's  March 
into  London,"  which  is  said  to  have  sold  four 
million  copies  in  Germany  in  a  few  months. 
107 


BOTTLED  UP,  IN  BELGIUM 

Those  books  had  reminded  one  of  Frank  R. 
Stockton's  "The  Great  War  Syndicate." 
They  were  so  different.  Mr.  Stockton's 
book  dealt  with  an  imaginary  war  between 
Great  Britain  and  the  United  States,  end- 
ing in  a  decisive  American  triumph.  The 
tale  was  designed  simply  to  amuse,  but  its 
wide  popularity  was  of  real  significance.  It 
sold  because  it  was  the  kind  of  a  book  that 
reflected  accurately  the  martial  ambitions  of 
the  American  people.  It  showed  our  cause 
just.  It  showed  us  rising  to  a  great  emer- 
gency. It  showed  us  ultimately  victorious. 
Best  of  all  it  showed  us  great  in  victory. 
We  exacted  no  tribute.  We  burned  no 
cities.  We  obliterated  no  province.  We 
inflicted  no  humiliation  on  a  gallant  foe. 
We  implanted  no  heritage  of  hate. 

It  would  take  too  long  to  describe  in  detail 
the  two  German  books  mentioned.     Briefly, 
the  first  tells  of  an  imaginary  war  as  a  re- 
108 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

suit  of  which  France  is  absorbed  by  its  con- 
querors and  the  French  race  exterminated. 
A  dispute  about  a  railroad  in  Morocco,  com- 
plicated by  a  "Maine"  incident,  leads  Ger- 
many to  declare  war.  The  French  armies 
are  everywhere  easily  crushed.  Montpel- 
lier  is  burned  to  the  ground,  and  Orleans, 
after  capture,  is  made  to  look  like  a  "dead 
ruin  of  the  Middle  Ages."  After  Paris  is 
taken  the  terms  offered  by  the  victors  are 
so  humiliating  that  the  desperate  people 
make  a  final  but  unorganized  struggle. 
Germany  proclaims  the  annexation  of 
France,  and  puts  in  force  martial  law,  which 
daily  leads  to  the  shooting  of  hundreds  of 
rebels.  The  women  and  children  who  take 
part  in  the  desperate  struggle  to  remove  the 
yoke  are  deported  by  thousands  to  Cayenne 
and  other  penal  colonies. 

"Frankreich's  Ende  in  Jahre  19 — "  was 
published  two  years  before  the  first  German 
109 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

soldier  saw,  or  imagined,  the  first  sniper  in 
eastern  Belgium.  "Hindenberg's  March 
into  London"  must  be  judged  more  leni- 
ently, for  it  was  born  in  the  fever  of  hate. 
It  describes  an  invasion  of  England  and  the 
subjugation  of  that  country  by  the  Kaiser's 
armies,  and  his  fleets  of  the  sea  and  air.  As 
an  expression  of  the  national  ambitions  of 
author  and  readers  it  is  not  a  book  to  which 
one  could  in  strict  justice  object.  A  Ger- 
man picturing  the  spiked  helmets  masters 
in  Trafalgar  Square  is  fair  play.  That 
prisoners  are  often  lined  up  against  a  wall 
and  shot  is  hard,  but  it  is  war.  It  is  the 
bloody  licking  of  the  lips  that  amazes  the 
American  mind.  The  tragedy  of  Louvain 
is  extolled.  "The  heart  of  England  will  not 
be  instructed  even  by  the  fate  of  Belgium," 
a  German  Major,  a  hero,  instructs  his  sol- 
ders, "we  shall  repeat  the  lesson  of  Lou- 
vain."  In  a  battle  before  London  the  order 
110 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

to  take  no  prisoners  is  explained,  "When 
fighting  bestial,  snarling  scum  the  German 
soldier  observes  only  the  laws  of  the  hunt 
of  beasts  of  prey." 

The  two  books  came  to  me  through  the 
medium  of  English  translation.  I  can  not 
be  certain  that  the  original  text  had  not  in 
places  been  twisted  and  distorted.  They 
are  entitled  to  every  benefit  of  the  doubt. 
But  on  one  of  the  library  shelves  of  the  house 
at  126  Avenue  Louise  there  was  a  set  of 
books  containing  evidence  impossible  to  con- 
trovert or  to  discredit.  The  little  volumes, 
in  which  are  collected  the  experiences  of 
German  officers  and  soldiers  in  Belgium 
and  Northern  France,  carry  the  imprint  of 
the  Imperial  German  Government.  The 
seal  of  official  Germany  is  on  the  occasional 
amazing  and  hideous  confession  that  con- 
firms the  spirit  of  the  Bryce  Report  if  any 
such  confirmation  is  necessary.  "As  we 
111 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

were  passing  through  S.  shots  were  fired 
by  the  inhabitants.  One  of  our  soldiers 
was  wounded.  We  entered  and  searched 
some  of  the  houses.  In  one  of  them  we 
found  an  old  woman  trying  to  hide  under  a 
bed.  One  of  our  men  ran  her  through  with 
his  bayonet.  These  people  must  be  taught 
a  lesson."  There  is  no  distortion  in  that 
translation.  "But  why,"  I  asked  in  aston- 
ishment, "do  they  even  let  those  things  be 
printed?"  The  reply  was  a  shrug.  "Son, 
we  have  been  here  longer  than  you  have. 
We  have  given  up  trying  to  understand  the 
workings  of  the  German  mind." 

Then  there  were  the  affiches  of  the  past, 
infinitely  more  interesting  reading  than  the 
affiches  of  the  hour.  There  was  almost  a 
complete  set  of  these  papers  on  the  shelves  of 
the  library  at  No.  126.  Day  by  day  they 
had  told  the  story  of  the  war  as  the  Germans 
had  wished  it  told  to  the  people  of  the  in- 
112 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

vaded  country.  If  the  communique  of  the 
morning  happened  to  be  particularly  de- 
pressing, if  it  suggested  that  the  Entente 
cause  was  collapsing  at  all  points;  to  bring 
reassurance  it  was  necessary  only  to  take 
down  from  the  shelves  the  documents  relat- 
ing to  what  has  become  since  known  as  the 
Battle  of  the  Marne.  There  was  the  ring 
of  sincerity  in  the  exultant  sentences  record- 
ing the  beginning  of  that  conflict.  Every- 
where the  German  arms  triumphant.  The 
handful  of  British  flung  into  the  sea.  The 
French  crumpled  up,  receding  in  hopeless 
panic.  The  capture  of  Paris  only  a  matter 
of  hours.  Then  there  came  a  subtle  change 
in  tone.  The  battle  was  still  raging.  The 
Kaiser's  armies  were  displaying  a  heroism 
unparalleled  in  history.  All  was  going  well. 
The  Russians  had  been  defeated  in  a  great 
battle.  With  the  issue  of  every  new  com- 
munique the  Eastern  front  assumed  a 
113 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

greater  importance;  the  battlefield  of  the 
west  to  be  shrouded  in  deeper  obscurity. 
But  reading  in  the  dusk  of  a  midwinter  day 
I  could  see  through  the  veil  that,  thirty 
months  before,  had  been  drawn  before  Bel- 
gian eyes.  There  was  Joffre,  flinging  out 
his  General  Order  announcing  that  the  re- 
treat was  at  an  end.  There  were  Gallieni's 
men  being  rushed  from  Paris  in  taxi-cabs. 
There  was  the  new  French  army  striking  un- 
expectedly in  on  Von  Kluck's  right,  caus- 
ing the  eventual  attenuation  of  the  Ger- 
man line,  like  an  elastic  stretched  too  thin. 
There  was  Foch,  sending  to  Headquarters 
his  laconic  message  "My  right  wing  is  shat- 
tered. My  left  wing  is  in  retreat.  I  am  at- 
tacking with  my  center" ;  and  later,  perceiv- 
ing the  moment  of  dislocation  in  the  enemy's 
line,  ordering  the  advance  that  drove  the 
Prussian  Guard  into  the  marshes.  Then, 
the  gray-green  host  in  retreat,  with  the  bark- 
114 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

ing  "seventy-fives"  whipping  them  onward. 
In  a  similar  vein,  in  other  old  affiches,  was 
the  story  of  Verdun.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
say  how  many  thousand  bottles  of  wine  were 
consumed  by  German  officers  in  Brussels 
celebrating  the  announced  fall  of  the  citadel. 


115 


LOUVAIN:  THIRTY  MONTHS  LATER 

ONE  German  headquarters  was  in 
what  had  been  the  Hotel  Bellevue  et 
Flandre  near  the  Royal  Palace.  In  that 
hotel  I  had  stayed  at  the  time  of  my  first  and 
only  previous  visit  to  Brussels  many  years 
before.  Little  had  I  dreamed  then  what  the 
purpose  of  my  next  visit  to  the  edifice  was  to 
be.  When,  a  few  days  after  arrival,  I  was 
to  pass  before  the  official  scrutiny,  Sperry 
advised  me.  "They  want  to  give  you  the 
'once  over,'  "  was  the  way  that  he  expressed 
it.  "It  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  let  them 
know  that  you  have  written  anything. 
They  shy  at  the  idea  of  writers  on  the  Com- 
mission. When  they  asked  me  what  you 
116 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

did  at  home  I  said  I  understood  that  you 
were  some  kind  of  a  business  man."  I  un- 
derstood. So  after  having  been  inspected 
stiffly  by  Major  B.,  who,  assuring  me  of  his 
high  regret  at  his  inability  to  grant  me  an 
audience,  turned  me  over  to  Captain  S.,  I 
quite  truthfully  informed  the  latter  that  for 
many  years  previous  to  volunteering  for  the 
relief  work,  I  had  been  connected  with  a 
business  house  that  had  its  offices  at  Fourth 
Avenue  and  Thirtieth  Street  in  New  York 
City. 

As  a  result  of  that  inspection,  I  was  pro- 
vided, some  days  later,  with  an  official  yel- 
low document.  It  was  my  certificate  of  per- 
mission to  ride  in  a  motor  car  on  any  road 
in  the  Brabant  province.  Beyond  the  bor- 
ders of  the  province  I  could  not  go.  But 
Brabant  is  the  heart  of  Belgium,  and  within 
its  confines  were  enacted  some  of  the  most 
stirring  and  terrible  scenes  in  the  tragic 
117 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

August  of  1914.  The  memory  of  some  of 
those  scenes  seems  to  be  seared  into  the 
brains  of  many  of  those  who  witnessed  the 
coming  of  the  invaders.  Americans  who  in 
other  days  visited  the  Battlefield  of  Water- 
loo may  recall  a  little  hotel  at  the  junction 
of  the  roads  at  Braine  L'Alleud,  about  a  mile 
from  the  Lion  Monument.  The  building  is 
either  the  one  occupied  by  Victor  Hugo 
when  he  was  planning  the  marvelous  de- 
scription of  the  battle  that  is  incorporated 
in  "Les  Miserables,"  or  it  is  the  building 
next  to  it.  The  first  Sunday  in  March, 
1917,  Curtis  and  Leach,  bound  by  motor  for 
Charleroi,  dropped  me  at  what  is  popularly 
known  as  the  Battlefield  of  Waterloo — the 
village  of  Waterloo  two  or  three  miles  nearer 
Brussels,  actually  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
battle — and  after  two  hours  of  walking  I  sat 
down  for  a  brief  rest  in  the  Braine  L'Alleud 
hotel.  It  was  a  voluble  proprietor  who 
118 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

greeted  me,  deploring  the  lack  of  custom, 
the  inability  to  procure  food  to  sell  or  even 
to  eat,  the  general  unkindness  of  fate. 
When  he  paused  for  lack  of  breath  I  asked 
him  if  he  had  seen  the  Germans  come.  In- 
stantly his  demeanor  changed.  Into  his 
eyes  crept  reminiscent  fear.  As  he  de- 
scribed he  acted  the  scene.  "Listen,  Mon- 
sieur. I  had  hidden  everything  in  the  cel- 
lar. I  had  closed  all  the  doors  and  windows, 
and  was  looking  out  through  the  slits  in  the 
shutters.  Like  this.  Here.  They  came 
down  that  road.  I  could  see  them  rounding 
the  turn.  They  crossed  the  square.  With 
their  gun  butts  they  pounded  on  the  door. 
They  cried  'Open.'  Oh!  Mon  Dieu!"  In 
the  narrative  the  man's  face  had  become  wet 
with  the  sweat  of  panic. 

With  Louis  the  chauffeur  as  my  guide,  I 
traveled  over  many  roads  to  the  east,  north 
and  west.    There  was  not  a  town,  or  the 
119 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

charred  ruin  of  what  had  once  been  a  town, 
of  which  Louis  did  not  know  the  recent  his- 
tory. His  former  employers  having  fled  be- 
fore the  invasion  and  sought  refuge  in  Eng- 
land, Louis  had  been  absorbed  into  the  serv- 
ice of  the  C.  R.  B.  From  time  to  time,  in 
a  Brussels  street  or  along  a  country  road,  a 
Landsturm  man  would  step  out,  displaying 
a  red  flag.  It  was  the  demand  to  see  our 
papers.  "Sale  Boche!"  Louis  would  growl, 
twirling  his  blond  mustache  and  bringing 
the  car  to  a  stop.  There  was  a  world  of 
meaning  in  Louis's  "Sale  Boche!" 

Louvain,  I  have  found,  has  an  appeal  to 
many  thousand  Americans  to  whom  the 
names  of  other  stricken  Belgian  cities  are 
unknown.  "Did  you  go  to  Louvain  and  is 
it  really  true?"  have  been  among  the  first 
questions.  How  do  I  know?  I  was  not 
there  August  19,  1914,  the  day  the  Germans 
entered,  nor  was  I  there  the  night  of  August 
120 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

25,  when  the  Beast  broke  loose.  I  did  not 
see  the  red  reflection  in  the  sky,  or  the  civil- 
ians being  led  to  execution,  or  the  soldiers 
punishing  snipers,  according  to  the  German 
version,  or,  in  blind  panic,  replying  to  one 
another's  volleys,  which  is  the  claim  of  the 
Belgians.  I  can  say  that  I  was  in  Louvain 
for  the  first  time  March  10, 1917,  and  that  I 
saw  the  evidence  of  a  work  masterly  in  its 
system.  Whatever  I  may  believe  I  don't 
know  whose  work  it  was.  Perhaps  Belgium 
stole  the  watch,  and,  the  car  being  crowded, 
slipped  it  in  the  Kaiser's  pocket. 

We  entered  Louvain  through  a  narrow, 
ill-paved  street  of  the  poorer  section,  swung 
into  the  Rue  de  Bruxelles,  past  the  Hotel  de 
Ville,  then  along  the  Rue  de  la  Station  to 
the  railway  station;  thus  bisecting  the  city. 
We  circled  the  boulevard  southward  for  a 
distance,  and  then  turned  in  again  through 
the  tortuous  streets.  Had  the  evidence 
121 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

been  allowed  to  remain  as  a  permanent 
warning?  The  charred  ruins  were  left  as 
they  were  when  the  ashes  first  grew  cold. 
The  few  new  structures  that  had  been 
erected,  near  the  railway  station,  were  of 
what  might  be  termed  the  Coney  Island 
school  of  architecture.  Of  course  no  one 
thinks  of  taking  the  chance  of  rebuilding  in 
an  enduring  form.  In  the  center  of  a 
blighted  street  a  single  house  absolutely  un- 
scarred.  "Une  maison  allemande,"  Louis 
would  explain.  The  Church  of  St.  Pierre, 
the  University,  once  the  most  famous  in  Eu- 
rope, with  its  library  filled  with  precious 
manuscript  had  been  consumed  by  the 
flames.  The  late  Richard  Harding  Davis, 
in  his  description  of  the  burning  of  Louvain, 
pictured  General  Lutwitz,  in  pantomime 
sweeping  his  hand  across  the  table  and  say- 
ing: "The  Hotel  de  Ville  was  a  beautiful 
building.  It  is  a  pity  it  must  be  destroyed." 
122 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

But  it  was  not  destroyed.  Untouched,  un- 
scarred,  it  stands  to-day,  the  sole  important 
survivor  of  that  night  of  horrors. 


123 


VI 

"TO   UNDERSTAND   GERMANY" 

WHAT  were  the  relations  existing 
between  the  German  officers  in 
Belgium  and  the  occupied  French  depart- 
ments, and  the  C.  R.  B.  men  with  whom 
they  were  often  so  much  and  so  long  in  con- 
tact? How  did  they  get  along?  I  do  not 
think  that  it  was  ever  possible  for  the  Ger- 
man to  understand  the  American,  or  the 
American  the  German.  There  are  prob- 
ably to-day  many  officers  who,  recalling  the 
association,  are  perfectly  convinced  of  their 
own  great  personal  popularity  with  the  dele- 
gates. "Unless  they  are  absolute  ingrates 
and  barbarians  it  can  not  possibly  be  other- 
wise," is  the  probable  line  of  mental  argu- 
ment. "Did  I  not  treat  him  with  high  es- 
124 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

teem?  Was  I  not  always  correct  in  my  de- 
portment? Naturally  I  took  the  bedroom 
and  the  office,  and  gave  him  the  camp  couch 
and  wooden  table  in  the  hall.  Anything  but 
the  best  would  be  unbecoming  an  officer  bear- 
ing His  Majesty's  commission.  Did  we  not 
together  consume  oh,  so  many  bottles  of 
wine?"  All  of  which  is  perfectly  true.  It 
was  not  at  American  suffering  that  he  had 
displayed  such  callous  indifference.  The 
stricken  street  through  which  the  motor  car 
raced  was  not  one  of  a  village  of  New  Eng- 
land or  Virginia.  Outwardly  cordial  the  re- 
lations between  officer  and  delegate  almost 
always  were.  In  convivial  moments  they 
were  even  familiar.  One  pair,  after  the 
American's  second  drink  and  the  German's 
twentieth,  addressed  each  other  as  "Cap" 
and  "Lizzie."  Had  they  been  shipwrecked 
men  on  a  remote  island  they  might  have  be- 
come as  brothers.  But  so  long  as  one  was 
125 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

the  product  and  embodiment  of  the  Prussian 
military  system,  and  the  other  was  not,  there 
was  between  them  a  gulf  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  bridge. 

Some  of  the  delegates  told  that  they  had 
gone  into  Belgium  pro-German,  politically 
at  least.  Take,  as  a  shining  example,  the 
case  of  the  man  whom  I  shall  call  "Kitt."  I 
here  indulge  in  prophecy,  and  venture  the 
opinion  that  he  will  go  far.  The  time  may 
come  when  magazines  will  be  urging  us  to 
write  our  "Recollections"  of  "Kitt"  as  we 
knew  him  in  the  Bottle.  "What  an  amazing 
amount  of  ill-digested  knowledge  he  pos- 
sesses" was  my  comment  after  two  evenings' 
acquaintance.  I  used  the  adjective  in  no 
sense  of  disparagement,  but  because  I  did 
not  think  that  it  was  humanly  possible  for 
a  man  of  his  age — "Kitt"  was  about  twenty- 
six — to  have  absorbed  so  much  and  to  have 
assimilated  it.  But,  "The  rest  stands,  but  I 
120 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

want  to  take  back  that  'ill-digested,' "  was 
my  retraction  of  a  week  later.  In  No.  126 
Kitt  was  our  translator.  The  only  trouble 
that  the  Belgique  gave  us  was  an  occasional 
word  and  the  atrocious  quality  of  the  type 
and  ink.  But  the  Rotterdamishe  Courier 
or  the  German  sheet  that  came  to  the  house, 
was  turned  over  formally  to  "Kitt"  with 
the  admonition  to  "Go  to  it!'*  The  Dutch 
newspaper  was  an  excellent  one.  Some 
mornings  it  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  box. 
We  were  at  once  disappointed  and  pleased; 
for  that  indicated  that  there  was  news  of  the 
world  that  the  occupying  military  authori- 
ties did  not  want  known  in  Belgium.  Had 
there  been  newspapers  in  other  languages 
than  Dutch  and  German,  I  am  sure  there 
would  have  been  no  hesitation  on  "Kitt's" 
part.  He  was  always  so  amiably  ready; 
he  needed  so  little  urging;  that  somehow, 
after  a  time,  we  ceased  to  be  appreciative. 
127 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

We  even  began  to  wonder  if  he  was  suffi- 
ciently grateful.  After  all,  were  we  not 
supplying  him  with  an  audience?  In  addi- 
tion to  the  newspapers  that  were  delivered 
at  the  house,  there  were  many  others. 
"Kitt's"  appetite  for  print  was  insatiable. 
In  the  course  of  some  days  he  collected  a 
copy  of  every  journal  that  reached  Brussels. 
The  rights  of  the  street  kiosks  and  railway 
stands  had  been  sold  to  a  German  company, 
and  German  girls  had  been  sent  to  Belgium 
to  take  charge  of  them.  "Kitt's"  favorite 
diversion  was  infuriating  these  girls  by  ask- 
ing them,  in  pretended  innocence,  if  they 
understood  any  German. 

A  University  of  California  man,  "Kitt" 
had  been  a  "Rhodes"  scholar  at  Oxford 
about  to  depart  with  an  expedition  for  re- 
search of  some  kind  in  the  Near  East  when 
the  war  came.  Perhaps  it  was  just  a  touch 
of  intellectual  intolerance  natural  to  youth, 
128 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

and  soon  to  be  outgrown,  that  had  been  re- 
sponsible for  his  early  sentiments.  The  rea- 
sons for  an  American  to  be  anti-Prussian 
were  too  obvious.  The  violation  of  Bel- 
gium, and  the  behavior  of  the  invaders  on 
Belgium  soil,  the  aggression  upon  France. 
These  were  the  arguments  at  the  disposal  of 
the  man  in  the  street.  It  behooved  the  dis- 
passionate historian  to  ignore  them  and  to 
go  deeper.  So  "Kitt"  looked  beyond;  he 
saw  Germany  baulked  in  her  scheme  for  the 
Bagdad  railway,  he  saw  German  merchants 
subtly  discriminated  against  in  Morocco, 
while  the  English  and  French  were  playing 
into  each  other's  hands,  he  saw  a  British 
tyranny  over  the  seas  which,  if  benevolent, 
was  no  less  a  tyranny.  That  was  the  "Kitt" 
who  went  into  Belgium;  it  was  not  the 
"Kitt"  of  the  winter  and  spring  of  1917. 
What  he  felt  in  the  later  days  was  reflected 
in  his  face  when  he  told  the  pathetic  story 
129 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

of  the  farthest  flung  outposts  of  the  C.  R.  B., 
the  group  of  great  hearted  French  women, 
who,  through  the  long  months,  had  remained 
in  their  village  within  sight  of  the  spire  of 
Rheims  Cathedral,  in  hourly  peril  from  the 
French  guns,  in  order  to  take  care  of  the 
little  children. 

Personally  I  do  not  for  a  moment  pretend 
that  I  was  ever  strictly  neutral.  I  do  not 
see  how  neutrality  of  feeling  on  the  part  of 
an  American  was  ever  humanly  possible. 
But  I  do  say  that,  never  since  the  beginning 
of  the  war,  had  I  ever  been  so  nearly  neu- 
tral; never  had  my  sentiments  towards  the 
German  nation  been  so  kindly,  as  in  the  au- 
tumn of  1916,  on  the  eve  of  my  departure. 
In  the  first  place  I  had  given  to  the  Commis- 
sion for  Relief  in  Belgium  my  pledge  of 
neutrality  of  speech  and  action,  and  I  meant 
to  keep  that  pledge  honestly.  Then  the  hot 
indignation  roused  by  the  events  of  August, 
130 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

1914,  the  passionate  bitterness  at  the  murder 
of  the  peaceful  Americans  sent  down  with 
the  Lusitania}  had  been  softened  by  the 
passage  of  time.  The  German  govern- 
ment's plan  of  ruthless  indiscriminate  under- 
sea warfare  was  then  not  to  be  suspected. 
"You  will  probably,"  Will  Irwin  said  to  me 
one  day,  "be  paired  off  in  some  small  town 
with  a  German  officer.  If  you  are  lucky 
you  will  find  him  a  very  decent  chap,  who 
will  be  just  as  earnest  as  you  are  in  the  work 
of  getting  food  for  the  people  for  whom  you 
will  be  responsible."  From  other  sources  I 
heard  stories  indicating  the  cordial  relations 
that  often  existed  between  the  American 
delegates  and  their  companions  in  the 
Kaiser's  gray-green.  One  American  had 
been  taken  on  a  trip  down  the  Rhine.  In 
another  case  a  German  officer,  about  to  be 
married,  carried  his  American  back  with  him 
through  the  lines,  to  act  as  his  best  man.  -I 
131 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

have  a  very  good  club  friend  who,  coming 
to  this  country  many  years  ago,  as  a  member 
of  the  stock  company  of  the  German  theater 
in  Irving  Place,  New  York,  soon  acquired  a 
perfect  command  of  English,  and  in  time  be- 
came one  of  the  most  highly  esteemed  actors 
of  the  English  speaking  stage.  "I  hope," 
he  said  one  evening  a  few  days  before  I 
sailed,  "that  what  you  see  in  Belgium  will 
make  you  come  back  with  feelings  of  real 
kindliness  for  my  people."  Then  and  there 
I  gave  him  my  word  that  I  would  do  my  best 
to  try  to  understand  them  sympathetically. 
Scrupulously  I  refused  to  take  part  in  any 
conversation  based  on  hostility  to  the  Ger- 
man cause.  As  an  American  neutral  going 
to  Belgium,  the  spirit  of  noblesse  oblige  de- 
manded that.  If  there  was  any  C.  R.  B. 
delegate  who  did  less  I  never  knew  him. 
Some  of  them,  as  has  been  said,  even  went 
in  to  the  Bottle  pro-German.  But  no 
132 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

American  delegate  of  my  time  ever  came  out 
of  Belgium  pro-German.  And  that,  I 
think,  constitutes  a  tremendous  indictment. 
"To  understand  Germany  you  must  think 
in  centuries,"  were  the  words  with  which  all 
adverse  criticism  was  swept  away.  Often 
the  words  were  emphasized  with  the  heavily 
banging  fist.  I  came  to  understand  the 
point  of  view ;  but  I  always  wanted  to  off er  a 
slight  amendment.  To  my  mind  it  should 
have  been:  "To  understand  the  Germans 
you  must  always  keep  the  centuries  in  mind." 
You  must  see  the  marvelous  organization  of 
the  twentieth  century  obedient  to  the  con- 
science, the  morals,  the  ideals  of  the  thir- 
teenth or  fourteenth.  You  must  under- 
stand the  vastness  of  the  gulf  across  which 
the  "High  Well  Born"  once  glanced  at  the 
peasant,  and  the  latter's  unquestioning,  ox- 
like  acceptance  of  the  position  assigned  him. 
"What  are  to  be  the  future  duties  of  the  peo- 
133 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

pie  of  the  conquered  districts — of  Poland, 
Belgium,  and  Northern  France?"  was  a 
question  of  1915.  It  was  the  voice  of  the 
German  professor  that  framed  the  reply. 
"To  pay  taxes  to  the  Imperial  Government, 
to  serve  in  the  army,  and  to  keep  their  jaws 
tight  shut."  Precisely  the  idea  of  Fred- 
erick the  Great  and  of  his  military  mad 
father,  that  monarch  whose  agents  went 
about  Europe  beguiling  or  kidnaping 
likely  looking  men  for  his  Guard. 

At  times  there  came  glimpses  that  car- 
ried back  beyond  the  wars  of  Frederick,  be- 
yond the  age  of  established  Feudal  customs, 
of  robber  barons  of  the  Rhine,  of  adventure 
seeking  knights  in  shining  armor.  One  day 
in  March  the  search  for  certain  missing 
freight  cars  carried  me  to  Scharbeek  station, 
to  Haren  Nord,  to  Ricquier,  to  the  Meu- 
nerie  Bruxelloise,  to  the  Trois  Fomtaines, 
and  finally  to  the  Usine  Duche.  The  ar- 
134 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

rival  at  the  last  named  mill  was  just  in  time 
to  see  a  sound  demonstration  of  practical 
requisitioning.  The  Germans  happened  to 
need  freight  cars  and  learned  that  there  were 
cars  in  the  sidings  of  the  Usine  Duche. 
There  was  no  delaying  red  tape.  An  under 
officer  with  twenty  soldiers  was  sent  to  the 
task.  As  the  motor  car  wound  in  among  the 
buildings,  from  round  the  corner  came  the 
sounds  of  impact  and  splintering  wood.  Be- 
neath the  weight  of  the  gun  butts  the  heavy 
gate  gave  away  like  papier  mdchS.  The 
startled  undermanager  rushed  forward  ap- 
pealingly  and  protestingly.  Above  his  head 
a  half  dozen  gun  butts  swung  menacingly. 
Bayonets  gleamed  in  the  direction  of  his  sub- 
ordinates. Then  the  manager  caught  sight 
of  the  C.  R.  B.  ensign  flying  from  the  car, 
and  rushed  forward  to  register  exerted  com- 
plaint. "With  his  own  eyes  Monsieur  the 
American  delegate  had  seen  it  all.  He 
135 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

could  bear  witness  that  there  had  been  no 
resistance.  It  was  hard.  But  one  must 
submit,  since  they  were  the  stronger.  But 
why  had  they  not  waited  until  the  gate  could 
be  opened?  Why  the  destruction  of  prop- 
erty? Why  had  they  been  about  to  strike 
him?  Would  I  report  it  at  Headquarters? 
Would  I  inform  the  American  Minister? 
Would  I  spread  the  news  in  all  the  neutral 
countries?"  It  was  a  very  much  agitated, 
violently  gesticulating  Belgian.  To  sooth 
him  I  promised  much,  though  I  foresaw  the 
smiling  shrug;  the  "I  don't  see  that  we  can 
do  anything,"  that  would  meet  my  story. 
The  invaders  were  rolling  away  the  cars, 
chattering  to  one  another,  and  leering  mock- 
ingly in  our  direction.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  faces  that  suggested  the  inheri- 
tance from  the  remote  past,  that  brought  a 
mental  picture  of  hordes  of  skin-clad  men, 
swarming  out  of  the  mysterious  East,  to 
136 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

overrun  Western  Europe,  and  to  beat  at  the 
very  gates  of  Imperial  Rome. 

Here,  too,  one  time,  the  pallid  nuns 
Called  on  the  Saints  in  timorous  trust, 

While  from  the  hills  the  ape-faced  Huns 
Grinned  with  the  joy  of  blood  and  lust. 


137 


VII 

UNDER  THE  YOKE — THE  "LIBRE  BELGIQUE" — 
VILLALOBAR — THE  COMING  OF  THE  DONS 
— DISCRETION 

WHAT  are  regarded  as  afflictions 
sometimes  prove  to  be  blessings  in 
disguise.  Standing  on  the  platform  of  a 
Brussels  tram  surrounded  by  German  offi- 
cers, I  often  awoke  to  a  realization  that  I 
was  trying  desperately  to  hum  the  "Marseil- 
laise" or  "Tipperary."  Puzzled  and  suspi- 
cious eyes  were  turned  towards  me,  but  in 
that  utter  inability  to  carry  any  kind  of  a 
tune  that  had  been  a  life-long  regret,  there 
was  safety.  The  morning  of  March  17th  I 
had  a  bright  idea.  Carrying  it  out,  I  hunted 
through  the  rooms  of  126  until  I  found  a 
spool  of  green  ribbon  of  the  proper  shade. 
138 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

I  would  carry  it  to  the  office,  snip  it  up  into 
little  pieces  so  that  we  might  all  carry  out 
the  American  tradition  of  doing  honor  to 
St.  Patrick.  Luckily  I  went  by  motor,  and 
luckily  my  overcoat  was  drawn  tight  over 
the  ribbon  in  my  iown  buttonhole.  "No, 
thank  you,"  they  said  at  the  office,  "we  are 
not  hankering  after  the  inside  of  a  German 
prison.  Don't  you  know  that  the  green 
ribbon  in  Belgium  is  the  sign  of  esperance 
(hope)  and  that  the  wearing  of  it  is  punished 
by  the  most  oppressive  measures?"  It  had 
been  so  since  that  day  July  21st,  1916,  the 
anniversary  of  Belgian  independence,  when 
Cardinal  Mercier  came  from  Malines  to  cele- 
brate high  mass  in  Sainte  Gudule.  The 
wearing  of  the  national  colors  was  strictly 
forbidden.  But  almost  every  person  in  the 
multitude  which  thronged  the  Cathedral  and 
the  adjacent  streets  had  a  bit  of  green  rib- 
bon— the  symbol  of  hope — or  an  ivy  leaf — 
139 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

symbol  of  endurance.  Then,  too,  for  the 
first  time  in  many  long  months,  the  "Bra- 
banconne"  was  sung.  The  song  cost  the 
city  of  Brussels  a  million  marks.  But,  as 
many  a  Belgian  said,  it  was  worth  it. 

Since  the  occupation,  there  has  appeared 
from  time  to  time  in  Belgium  a  paper  known 
as  the  Libre  Belgique.  Rewards  were  of- 
fered, the  most  extensive  system  of  espion- 
age was  essayed,  but  the  occupying  authori- 
ties were  never  able  to  discover  the  place 
where  it  was  printed,  or  who  were  its  respon- 
sible editors  and  publishers.  Death  was  the 
penalty  for  any  one  convicted  of  having  a 
hand  in  its  making;  two  years  in  a  German 
prison  for  being  caught  in  possession  of  the 
copy.  Yet  the  Libre  Belgique  continued  to 
appear  blithely.  One  day  its  front  page 
showed  General  von  Bissing  studying  the 
sheet  attentively  and  exclaiming,  "Here  is 
where  I  get  the  real  news."  Tales  were  told 
140 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

of  Belgians  who  in  hours  of  assumed  friend- 
liness plied  German  officers  with  huge 
draughts  of  liquid  hospitality  and  then  sent 
them  reeling  home  through  the  streets  with 
copies  of  the  forbidden  publication  pinned 
to  their  military  coat-tails.  One  day  a  Bel- 
gian, the  head  of  a  great  mill,  presented  me 
with  a  copy  of  Libre  Belgique.  It  was  his 
last  copy.  The  next  morning  the  authori- 
ties descended  upon  him  and  made  a  thor- 
ough search.  For  four  uneasy  days  I  car- 
ried that  paper.  Then  my  nerve  gave  out. 
At  first  you  were  revolted  at  what  appears 
to  be  the  whimpering  hypocrisy  of  the  Bel- 
gian press.  Then  you  realized  that  it  is  not 
Belgian  at  all,  that  every  word  in  La  Bel- 
gique in  the  morning  and  the  Bruxellois  in 
the  evening  was  dictated  by  the  German  cen- 
sor. Strangest  of  all  were  the  letters  pur- 
porting to  come  from  the  deported 
chomeurs.  Were  it  not  for  the  element  of 
141 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

pathos  they  would  be  uproariously  funny. 
"How  happy  we  are  among  the  dear,  kind 
Germans,"  was  the  refrain.  "We  never 
knew  what  real  contentment  was  before. 
We  are  so  sorry  for  our  poor  brothers  who 
have  not  yet  been  deported.  We  hope,  for 
•their  sake,  to  see  them  soon." 

More  interesting  than  the  newspapers 
were  the  affiches  issued  day  by  day  from  the 
presses  of  the  occupying  military  authorities. 
They  contained  the  Berlin  communiques  tell- 
ing of  the  progress  of  the  war  on  the  west- 
ern and  eastern  fronts  and  announcing  any 
new  regulations  required  for  the  local  gov- 
ernment. These  regulations  mostly  had  to 
do  with  new  methods  of  requisitioning.  Be- 
fore Belgium  had  seemed  a  land  milked  dry, 
a  land  from  which  most  of  the  cows  had  been 
driven,  and  where  the  only  horses  were  the 
diseased  or  the  aged.  I  heard  of  a  Belgian 
horse-dealer  whose  sense  of  humor  proved 
142 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

costly.  He  possessed  a  steed  that  was  req- 
uisitioned. It  was  a  fine  looking  animal. 
So  long  as  it  was  being  urged  forward  it  was 
perfect  in  stride  and  action.  But  when  the 
rider  tried  to  make  it  back,  it  fell  down. 
When  he  turned  over  the  horse  the  Belgian 
forgot  to  mention  that  peculiarity.  Two 
days  later,  the  officer  to  whom  it  had  been 
given  came  storming  for  an  explanation. 
"What's  the  matter  with  the  horse?"  asked 
the  Belgian  suavely.  "Of  course  I  know 
that  it  can't  back.  But  when  you  start  to 
cross  the  Yser  you  want  a  horse  to  go  for- 
ward. You  don't  want  it  to  back  you  all 
the  way  to  Brussels,  do  you?"  He  paid  for 
the  pleasantry  with  three  months  in  prison, 
but  I  think  he  considered  it  worth  the  price. 
As  a  result  of  one  of  the  last  requisitioning 
orders  we  in  No.  126  saw  the  going  of  the 
copper  and  the  brass.  That  was  in  March. 
I  am  wondering  what  is  left  now! 
143 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

The  morning  of  Monday,  February  5th,  I 
glanced  at  the  first  page  of  La  Belgique 
after  those  who  happened  to  gather  at  the 
breakfast    table   had    seen    it.     "There    is 
nothing  new,"  they  said,  but  after  a  few 
minutes'  study  I  protested.     I  said  I  was 
not  so  sure.     I  thought  that  I  had  a  hunch. 
"Why  should  the  St.  Louis  be  putting  back 
into  port?"  I  asked,  and  pointed  to  one  or 
two  other  paragraphs  that  impressed  me  as 
curious.    But  the  men  had  lost  all  respect  for 
my  hunches.     I  had  had  them  too  often  be- 
fore.    In  the  office  the  long  figure  of  Jack- 
son  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  repre- 
sentatives' room.     "Well,"  he  said  slowly, 
"we  have  broken  off  relations.     We  heard 
the  news  through  Holland  Saturday  night  " 
Not  a  line  of  the  break  appeared  in  the&Bel- 
gian  papers  till  the  evening  of  February 
6th.     Yet  the  facts  were  known  from  one 
end  of  the  land  to  the  other.     The  waiters 
144 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

were  smiling  over  it  in  the  restaurants  and 
cafes,  the  barber  commented  upon  it  whis- 
peringly  in  your  ear  as  you  were  lying  back 
in  his  chair.  Strange  and  incomprehensible 
was  the  effect  of  that  first  step  and  of  the 
events  that  were  to  come  upon  the  Belgians. 
They  forgot  what  it  might  mean  to  the  ravit- 
aillement  of  which  they  were  so  vitally  in 
need.  They  saw  only  the  entrance  of  a  new 
ally  against  the  hated  oppressor.  The  hour 
of  deliverance  from  the  yoke  seemed  so  much 
nearer  at  hand. 

When  it  became  apparent  that  the  hours 
of  our  own  usefulness  were  numbered,  there 
was  the  question  of  looking  about  for  those 
who  were  to  be  our  successors.  When  the 
relations  between  the  United  States  and  the 
Imperial  German  Government  began  to  be 
critical,  Mr.  Whitlock  naturally  ceased  to 
be  first  among  the  representatives  of  the  still 
neutral  countries.  His  place  was  taken  by 
145 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

the  Spanish  Minister  to  Belgium,  the  Mar- 
quis de  Villalobar.  Once,  many  months 
ago,  the  news  reached  the  C.  R.  B.  office  that 
the  Germans  were  about  to  requisition 
all  the  machinery.  "That,"  commented 
Sperry,  "will  be  exceedingly  hard  on  Villa- 
lobar." A  remarkable  man,  Villalobar. 
In  ancient  days  he  would  have  been  exposed 
as  an  infant  to  certain  death  on  a  mountain 
top.  He  was  born  practically  without  legs, 
but  beyond  that  opinion  differs  as  to  whether 
he  is  two-thirds  or  only  one-half  artificial. 
But  the  frail  body  is  dominated  by  a  mind  of 
singular  keenness  and  clarity.  He  accom- 
plishes progression  by  means  of  a  compli- 
cated machinery  which  he  winds  up  and  op- 
erates. The  impression  is  that  he  is  a  some- 
what indifferent  chauffeur.  Rumor  has  it 
that  at  times,  in  shifting  from  the  second  to 
the  third  forward,  he  misses  his  gears  and 
catches  the  reverse. 

146 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

A  fortnight  or  three  weeks  before  the  de- 
parture from  Brussels  Villalobar  came 
formally  to  lunch  with  us  in  the  Commis- 
sion's offices.  We  saw  and  acclaimed  a 
clever,  smiling  diplomat,  telling  of  his  years 
of  service  in  Washington,  expressing  senti- 
ments in  keeping  with  the  entwining  of  the 
two  flags  against  the  wall,  the  gridiron  with 
the  starry  field,  and  the  yellow  and  blood  red 
pavilion  of  Spain;  paying  compliments  to 
the  broad  humanity  of  the  United  States,  to 
his  highly  esteemed  colleague  the  American 
Minister  to  Belgium,  to  the  Director  who 
sat  by  his  side.  But  there  were  whispered 
tales  that  hinted  at  another  Villalobar, 
rumors  of  moments  of  privacy  when  the  iron 
will  and  the  stubborn  pride  that  enabled  him 
to  conceal  suffering  and  physical  weakness 
temporarily  deserted  him;  of  strange  out- 
bursts when  the  dependents  about  him 
shrank  away  from  his  fiery  anger.  The 
147 


stories  may  have  been  quite  unfounded ;  but 
true  or  false  they  somehow  filled  out  the  pic- 
ture. That  very  morning  returning  from 
the  mills  at  Vilvorde  I  had  suggested  to 
Louis  increased  speed,  explaining  the  need 
of  being  in  good  time  for  luncheon  as  the 
table  was  to  be  honored  by  the  presence  of 
the  Marquis  de  Villalobar.  At  the  name 
Louis's  hands  left  the  steering  wheel  and 
were  tossed  eloquently  heavenward.  "Not 
for  one  thousand  francs  a  month  would  I  be 
his  chauffeur !  II  frappe  ses  domestiques!" 
It  was  a  vivid  picture  that  further  confi- 
dences from  Louis  conjured  up.  The  mask 
of  unctiousness  dropped,  the  face  distorted 
with  fury,  the  voice  shrill  with  screaming 
abuse,  the  blindly  lashing  cane. 

It  was  in  response  to  Villalobar's  call  to 

his  countrymen  that,  late  in  March,  there 

appeared  on  the  scene  five  or  six  young  and 

much  bewhiskered  Spaniards.     There  was 

148 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

one  little  personal  incident  to  their  coming 
that  can  never  be  forgotten.  They  had 
lunched  at  noon  at  our  offices  when  only  a 
handful  of  the  Americans  was  present. 
Then,  in  the  afternoon,  they  were  directed 
to  take  quarters  in  certain  indicated  houses. 
Two  of  them  made  their  way  to  No.  126 
Avenue  Louise,  found  beds  unoccupied,  and 
retired  for  the  night.  It  happened  that  sev- 
eral of  the  Americans  living  in  the  house 
were  being  entertained  at  dinner  in  Belgian 
homes  and  returned  after  drinking  many 
toasts  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning. 
In  the  unceremonious  manner  usual  in  the 
establishment,  one  of  them  began  prowling 
around  the  various  rooms.  He  was  soon 
heard  coming  down  stairs  two  steps  at  a 
time.  His  eyes  were  startled  and  his  voice 
husky.  "It  was  in  the  bed,  right  against 
the  pillow,  that  I  saw  it!"  "What  did  you 
see?"  "I  don't  know  just  what  it  was,  but 
149 


it  looked  like  large  bunches  of  Castilian 
spinach!"  In  this  way  was  announced  the 
coming  of  the  Dons. 

Allusion  has  already  been  made  to  the 
necessity  for  discretion  in  deportment  and 
above  all  in  discussion,  that  was  constantly 
being  enjoined  on  us.    Even  before  Febru- 
ary 3rd  English  was  not  exactly  a  popular 
language.     Not  with  people  belonging  to 
the    occupying    nation.     Everywhere,     in 
hotel,  restaurant,  cafe  and  theater,  were  to 
be  seen  the  gray  coats  of  the  officers.     Even 
more  to  be  distrusted  was  that  invisible  army 
which  had  paved  the  way  for  the  invasion  in 
the  years  before  and  which  still  remained  an 
indispensable,  perhaps  the  most  indispensa- 
ble, part  of  the  whole  army  of  occupation. 
The  German  officers  themselves  were  sub- 
jected   to    constant    espionage.    Between 
courses  of  an  officers'  dinner  at  Lille,  to  which 
150 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

he  had  to  be  taken  in  order  that  his  officer 
might  be  present,  Leach  went  to  the  coat- 
room.  There  he  found  the  only  other  civil- 
ian invited,  a  member  of  the  German  Secret 
Service,  going  through  the  pockets  of  the 
overcoats.  With  us,  the  man  at  the  next 
table,  apparently  so  much  absorbed  in  the 
Messager  de  Bruxelles,  might  be  listening  to 
every  word  of  the  talk  with  ears  trained  for 
the  work  by  five  years  in  a  business-house  in 
Sheffield.  The  demure  little  middle-aged 
woman  over  the  way  might  have  a  number  in 
the  Wilhelmstrasse.  Yet  at  times  the  need 
of  a  means  of  communication  in  the  open 
was  imperative.  There  existed  happily  a 
domain  of  language  which  was  a  trackless 
country,  a  No  Man's  Land,  for  any  one  not 
trained  to  its  bye-paths,  its  pitfalls,  its  quag- 
mires. English  would  not  do.  French 
would  not  do.  There  remained,  for  the 
151 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

baffling  of  inquisitive  ears,  the  vast,  rich 
range  of  American  slang.  On  that  ground 
we  felt  we  were  safe. 

To  illustrate.  I  had  just  heard  that  a 
German  in  the  United  States  had  made  an 
attempt  upon  the  life  of  the  President.  It 
was  at  a  time  when  every  event  of  the  kind 
was  making  our  participation  in  the  war 
more  certain.  How  the  news  leaked  in  I  do 
not  know.  I  shall  never  know.  That  was 
the  peculiarity  of  news  in  Belgium.  You 
heard  the  rumor  but  you  could  trace  it  to  no 
apparent  source.  In  the  barber's  shop  were 
several  German  officers.  Entered  Sperry 
of  California,  who  had  just  returned  from 
a  trip  to  the  provinces,  and  would  be  likely 
to  know  nothing  of  the  report.  It  would 
be  better  if  he  were  informed  before  report- 
ing at  the  Pass  Zentrale.  He  took  the  next 
chair.  The  information  was  coded  and  the 
dialogue  ran  somewhat  as  follows : 
152 


INSIDE  THE  BOTTLE 

"Nix  on  any  of  these  spangled  Delicates- 
sens getting  wise,  but  if  there  were  any 
wully  extrees  in  this  burg,  they'd  be  scare 
heading  about  a  Heinie  who  has  just  tried 
to  put  over  a  Czolgos  on  the  Main  Squeeze." 

A  pause  and  then  back  from  the  lathered 
lips  in  the  other  chair : 

"I  getcha,  Steve.  What's  the  next  call 
for  dinner  in  the  dining  car?" 

"You  can  search  me.  But  I  think  it  is 
all  to  the  merry." 

"Say,  when  will  those  guys  stop  trying  to 
steal  second  with  the  bases  full?" 

"What  do  you  expect  from  Bush  League 
beans?  The  skids  for  them!  But  tell  me. 
Am  I  taking  too  long  a  lead  off  first?" 

" Ataboy !  These  gazabos  will  never  tum- 
ble to  the  line  in  a  thousand  years." 

Thus  was  the  purity  of  the  language  pre- 
served by  the  C.  R.  B. 
153 


PART  III 
GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 


A  PARIS  MEMORY 

IT  was  a  sunshiny  afternoon  ten  or  eleven 
days  after  the  arrival  in  Paris.  Percy 
of  Mississippi  and  the  writer,  meeting  by 
chance  in  front  of  the  Madeleine,  decided 
that  a  porto  blanc  would  be  neither  unwise 
nor  unpleasant,  and  found  a  table  in  front 
of  the  first  cafe  on  the  right  side  of  the  Rue 
Royale  as  you  go  down  towards  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde.  Incidentally,  it  is  a  cafe 
associated  with  a  great  scene  in  fiction. 
There,  in  Alphonse  Daudet's  "Sappho," 
Jean  Gaussin  fell  in  with  Caoudal,  the  sculp- 
tor, and  Dechelette,  the  engineer,  and  for 
the  first  time  learned  the  story  of  Fanny 
Legrand's  tempestuous  past.  References 
157 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

were  made  to  the  book  and  the  scene,  and 
then  I  pointed  to  the  groups  of  Sengalese 
soldiers  passing  along  the  sidewalk,  asked 
Percy  if  the  sight  of  the  glistening  black 
faces  did  not  make  him  homesick  for  Green- 
ville, and  assuming  a  Southern  drawl,  dis- 
coursed learnedly  of  certain  dishes  dear  to 
the  Southern  palate.  But  my  flippancy  did 
not  bring  the  expected  response.  About 
Percy's  eyes  there  was  still  a  trace  of  the 
odd,  strained  look.  Ten  days  previously  I 
had  reached  the  conclusion  that  I  was  one 
sane  man  traveling  with  six  unbalanced  com- 
panions ;  that  is  until  they  informed  me  that 
they  had  seriously  considered  having  the 
train  stopped  at  Charenton  and  seeing  that 
I  was  safely  put  away  for  a  time  in  the 
maison  de  sante  there.  Now  for  a  time, 
Percy  maintained  a  persistent  silence.  Fi- 
nally he  spoke.  "Tell  me,"  he  said,  "was  it 
all  a  dream?"  I  understood.  I  recalled 
158 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

the  last  weeks  in  Brussels,  the  turbulent  days 
of  doubts  and  expectations;  I  recalled  our 
departure  from  the  Gare  du  Nord,  the  weep- 
ing Belgians  and  the  last  call  of  the  gath- 
ered men  of  the  C.  R.  B.  as  the  train  was 
pulling  out,  "Good-by,  boys!  Good  luck! 
If  you  get  through  all  right  let  us  know,  for 
we  will  be  soon  following  you";  I  recalled 
the  strange  night  ride  to  the  frontier,  the 
six-handed  poker  game  under  the  dim  light, 
the  seventh  man  sitting  with  face  against 
the  window  pane,  whispering  reassuringly, 
"It's  all  right,  I  recognize  the  down  grade 
into  Liege.  We  seem  to  be  bound  for 
Cologne  as  they  promised  us" ;  I  recalled  the 
hours  in  Cologne,  and  the  trip  up  the  left 
bank  of  the  Rhine,  and  the  glaring  eyes  of 
bitter  dislike,  and  the  changes  at  Mayence 
and  Offenberg,  and  the  night  spent  in  Zin- 
gen  in  the  Black  Forest,  and  the  acid  bath 
for  which  we  were  prepared  but  which  we 
159 


escaped,  and  the  first  welcoming  voice  that 
told  us  that  we  were  on  Swiss  soil.  It  was 
the  voice  of  the  Swiss  soldier  to  whom  I 
handed  my  passport.  "Goot  ole  Oonited 
States,"  he  said  with  a  grin  as  he  examined 
the  document.  And  it  sounded  like  music. 
In  looking  back  I  knew  what  Percy  had 
meant  when  he  asked  "Was  it  all  a 
dream?" 


160 


II 


LAST  DAYS  IN   BRUSSELS  —  THE   CHANGING 
CITY 


business  is  to  keep  up  the  ravi- 
taillement  of  these  poor  people  as 
long  as  we  can,"  the  Brussels  Director, 
Warren  Gregory  of  San  Francisco,  had 
said  at  the  first  general  meeting  of  the  dele- 
gates after  the  breaking  of  diplomatic  rela- 
tions in  February.  "That  is  our  duty. 
But  we  have  another  duty.  That  is,  if  war 
between  Germany  and  the  United  States 
becomes  inevitable,  to  get  out  of  Belgium  as 
quickly  as  possible.  To  stay  under  such 
conditions  would  be  to  hamper  seriously  the 
Government  at  Washington.  When  it 
comes  to  that  point  we  must  go  at  once. 
That  is,"  he  added  significantly,  "if  they 
161 


BOTTLED  TIP  IN  BELGIUM 


will  let  us."  When,  about  the  first  of 
March,  we  heard  of  the  Zimmerman  note, 
there  could  no  longer  be  any  doubt.  That 
bit  of  news  differed  from  other  news  because 
there  was  no  attempt  on  the  part  of  the 
German  papers  that  came  into  Belgium,  or 
the  German  controlled  Belgian  press,  to  ob- 
scure or  delay  it.  They  were  too  eager  to 
tell  what  they  thought  of  the  prying  Yankee 
trick  that  had  found  the  heart  of  the  intrigue. 
"Base  treachery  against  the  Imperial  Gov- 
ernment on  United  States  soil"  is  a  literal 
translation.  There  was  a  certain  humor  in 
the  situation.  The  fact  that  the  plot  had 
promised  California  to  Japan,  and  Texas  to 
Mexico,  gave  the  opportunity  for  protest 
against  the  presence  at  the  morning  table  of 
Leach  and  Kittridge  of  San  Francisco,  and 
Maverick  of  San  Antonio.  It  was  not 
pleasant  to  be  sitting  down  to  breakfast  with 
two  Japs  and  a  Greaser.  But  they  retorted 
162 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

that  New  Jersey — my  native  State — was  to 
be  a  German  province,  and  called  me 
"Boche"  or  "Fritzie." 

The  last  weeks  in  Brussels  were  weeks  of 
waiting,  during  which  the  dominant  emo- 
tion was  one  of  curiosity  as  to  what  was 
about  to  happen  next.  One  evening  in  the 
hour  between  the  return  from  the  Dock  Of- 
fice and  the  sortie  for  dinner,  there  was  a 
ring  at  the  door  bell,  and  Louis  appeared, 
twirling  his  mustache,  and  proffering  a 
note.  It  was  from  Sperry  and  read: 
"They  will  be  coming  to  go  through  the 
house  for  brass  and  copper.  For  the  Love 
of  Mike  make  sure  that  every  man's  room 
is  safe.  Destroy  all  French  and  English 
newspapers.  Particularly  see  that  those 
copies  of  Punch  with  the  pictures  of  him 
(him  of  course  meant  the  Kaiser)  are  all 
before  the  war  numbers.  Go  through  every 
man's  correspondence.  It's  no  time  to  be 
163 


BpTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

squeamish.     I  would  do  it  myself  only  I  am 
not  coming  to  the  house!" 

In  those  weeks  the  aspect  of  the  city 
seemed  to  change.  It  had  been  the  coldest 
winter  in  the  history  of  the  land,  and  a 
winter  practically  without  coal.  In  No.  126 
Avenue  Louise  we  had  acquired  the  habit  of 
shivering  ourselves  to  sleep  at  a  tempera- 
ture of  twelve  to  fourteen  below  zero,  centi- 
grade. A  thieving  Belgian  urchin  would 
steal  from  a  cart  a  piece  of  charcoal  half 
the  size  of  a  brick  and  make  a  scampering, 
triumphant  escape.  The  school  houses  were 
closed.  All  shops  were  ordered  to  shut  their 
doors  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Now, 
however,  came  occasional  bright  days  that 
brought  the  promise  of  spring.  Military 
activity  became  more  in  evidence.  In  Janu- 
ary I  had  estimated  the  number  of  German 
soldiers  in  Brussels  at  thirty  thousand.  In 
March  it  was  probably  more  than  a  hundred 
164 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

thousand.  The  new  arrivals  congested  the 
Grand  Place,  studying,  guidebook  in  hand, 
the  gilded  fa9ades  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  and 
the  Guildhalls,  and  streamed  down  the  Rue 
de  1'Etuve  to  snigger  before  the  Manneken. 
Rumor  had  the  Kaiser  at  Liege,  the  Crown 
Prince  at  Namur,  Hindenberg  at  Venders. 
Cavalrymen  tried  out  horses  in  the  Avenue 
Louise.  There  were  more  sentries  in  the 
forbidden  Rue  de  la  Loi,  before  the  Palais 
de  la  Nation,  which  was  the  headquarters  of 
the  military  staff,  and  where,  as  a  precaution 
against  raids  of  the  French  and  British  air- 
men, the  Belgian  political  prisoners  were 
incarcerated  just  under  the  roof.  Van  Hee 
of  the  Consulate  at  Ghent  appeared  every 
third  day  in  the  C.  R.  B.  Representatives' 
Room,  with  his  invariable  story  of  the  Ger- 
man plan  for  the  immediate  invasion  of  Hol- 
land. We  can  forgive  that  story,  for  Van 
Hee  was  one  of  the  men  in  the  service  who 
165 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

upheld  the  American  tradition.  There  were 
other  so-called  American  Consuls  of  which 
the  same  could  not  be  said.  One  in  particu- 
lar, so  I  was  told,  was  in  the  habit  of  ex- 
plaining the  violation  of  Belgian  neutrality 
by  the  excuse  "Our  soldiers  simply  had  to 
go  through."  Now,  for  the  first  time  ap- 
peared in  the  papers  disquieting  references 
to  the  impending  German  retreat.  There 
is  no  doubt  of  the  fact  that  we  were  im- 
pressed. In  cold  blood  we  did  not  in  the 
least  credit  the  inspired  news  of  the  Belgian 
press.  But  the  constant  hammering,  the  in- 
sistence, day  after  day,  upon  Central  suc- 
cesses and  Entente  reverses  had  had  its  ef- 
fect. What  must  have  been  the  impression 
made  on  the  Belgians,  after  two  and  a  half 
years  under  the  strain?  Men  in  the  cafes 
claimed  to  know  of  the  existence  of  vast 
subterranean  chambers,  in  the  construction 
of  which  tens  of  thousands  of  men  had  been 
166 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

engaged  for  months.  For  long  months 
they  had  prayed  for  this  Allied  advance. 
Now  that  it  was  coming  they  feared  for  it. 
If  you  pointed  out  that  Haig  and  Nivelle 
were  likely  to  be  thoroughly  informed,  they 
shook  their  heads.  "It  is  a  great  trap. 
And  even  if  they  should  come  to  Brussels 
there  would  be  no  Brussels.  Ours  is  an 
undermined  city."  They  felt  the  same 
about  the  idea  of  the  entrance  of  the  United 
States  into  the  war.  It  revived  hope  and 
yet  brought  apprehension.  The  Americans 
of  the  C.  R.  B.  could  no  longer  remain,  and 
that  would  mean  letting  go  of  the  hand  that 
had  so  long  linked  them  to  the  world  be- 
yond. I  think  the  pressure  of  that  reassur- 
ing hand  meant  almost  as  much  to  Belgium 
as  the  material  sustenance.  Once,  in  a 
moment  of  depression,  I  confided  to  Maver- 
ick my  feelings  of  general  inadequacy. 
"The  Belgian  secretary  at  the  Dock  Office 
167 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

seems  to  do  about  four-fifths  the  work." 
"That's  what  he  is  there  for,"  replied  Maver- 
ick cheerfully;  "you're  here  to  sign  the  pa- 
pers you  don't  understand,  and  to  give  these 
guys  the  glad  hand." 

By  the  end  of  the  second  week  of  March 
it  was  no  longer  a  question  of  whether  we 
were  going,  but  whether  the  occupying  mili- 
tary authorities  would  let  us  go.     With  a 
foresight  based  on  experience  the  Director 
had  held  the  North  of  France  men  from 
their  posts  since  the  first  week  in  February. 
This  time  there  could  be  no  reasonable  ex- 
cuse for  detention  on  the  ground  of  recent 
observation  of  the  movements  of  military 
bodies  near  the  front.    Nevertheless  the  first 
conditions  called  for  a  stay  at  Baden-Baden 
for  a  period  of  fifteen  or  thirty  days.     The 
German  passports  given  us  so  read,  and  not 
till  we  had  crossed  the  Swiss  frontier  at 
Schaffhausen  were  we  quite  sure  that  Baden 
168 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

was  not  our  destination.  It  was  arranged 
that  the  departure  should  be  made  in  two 
groups.  First  seven  men  would  go  through, 
and  then  the  rest  would  follow  two  or  three 
days  later.  The  men  selected  to  leave  first 
were  the  North  of  France  men,  Charles 
Leach,  Alfred  C.  B.  Fletcher,  and  Tracy 
Kittridge  of  California,  Robert  Maverick  of 
Texas,  and  Philip  K.  Potter  of  New  York; 
and  also  William  A.  Percy  of  Mississippi, 
who  had  been  stationed  at  Antwerp,  and 
myself.  The  second  group  was  to  consist  of 
all  the  other  members  of  the  C.  R.  B.  with 
the  exception  of  three  men  left  to  wind  up 
the  affairs  of  the  office,  and  to  be  accom- 
panied by  Mr.  Brand  Whitlock  and  the 
other  members  of  the  American  Legation. 
Incidentally  I  had  lunch  at  the  Legation 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whitlock  the  Friday  be- 
fore we  left  and  Mrs.  Whitlock  told  me 
that  she  had  been  packed  up  for  departure 
169 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

since  the  day  after  the  sinking  of  the  Lusi- 

tania. 

The  Minister  and  Mrs.  Whitlock  were 
then  living  in  the  American  Legation  at  74 
Rue  de  Treves,  a  gloomy  building  in  a 
gloomy    street.    American   housewives    at 
home   complain   of   the    servant   problem. 
But  think  of  the   complications   of   Mrs. 
Whitlock's  position,   of  what   she  had  to 
guard   against.    For   the    German    secret 
service  agent  who  could  in  the  guise  of  a 
domestic,  wriggle  his  or  her  way  into  the 
minister's  household,  there  were  in  Berlin 
Iron  Crosses  and  material  reward.     Two 
years  ago  I  had  heard  a  story  about  Mrs. 
Whitlock.    It  was  to  the  effect  that  one 
evening  in  the  early  days  of  the  occupation, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whitlock  and  the  man  who 
had  told  the  tale  were  sitting  in  the  Legation 
library.     The   servants  had  gone   for  the 
night.     Suddenly  Mrs.  Whitlock  looked  up 
170 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

and  asked  her  husband  "Through  it  all  I 
have  been  pretty  good,  have  I  not?"  He  as- 
sured her  that  she  had  been  all  that  and  more. 
"Then  I  want  to  ask  something,"  she  con- 
tinued. "Certainly,  what  is  it?"  "When 
they  go  away  again  can  I  take  just  one  shot 
at  them?"  I  recalled  that  story.  But  in 
the  laughter  of  the  Minister  and  of  Mrs. 
Whitlock  there  was  neither  affirmation  nor 
denial. 

That  the  Minister  described  the  coming 
of  the  German  armies  to  Brussels  in  the 
words,  "As,  chanting,  the  column  climbed 
the  slope  of  the  Chaussee  de  Louvain  it 
seemed  to  be  swinging  out  of  the  Feudal 
Ages"  has  already  been  told.  The  soldiers 
were  moving  from  east  to  west.  The  prob- 
able line  of  march  would  be  past  the  Botan- 
ical Gardens,  the  Palace  Hotel,  and  the 
Gare  du  Nord,  and  then  across  the  Senne 
Canal,  in  the  direction  of  the  Channel  Coast. 
171 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

Or,  reaching  the  Boulevards,  the  column 
would  turn  to  the  left,  along  the  Boulevard 
de  Waterloo  to  the  Porte  Louise,  down  the 
Avenue  Louise  to  the  Bois  de  la  Cambre, 
and  onward,  past  the  Battlefield  of  Water- 
loo, towards  the  French  frontier.     Seeing 
the  head  of  the  column  approaching,  the 
Minister  lost  no  time  in  returning  to  the 
Legation,  where,  in  addition  to  Mrs.  Whit- 
lock,  were  his  own  mother  and  Mrs.  Whit- 
lock's    mother.     They    must    make    haste, 
he    urged.     The    Germans    were    passing 
through,  and  would  probably  slip  away  un- 
seen if  there  were  any  unnecessary  delay. 
He  laughed  at  the  recollection.    "It  never 
dawned  upon  me  what  a  modern  army  would 
be  like.     I  was  thinking  in  terms  of  militia 
parades  of  the  Middle  West.     Gone !    Why 
for  three  days  and  three  nights  the  seem- 
ingly   endless    host    roared    and    rumbled 
through." 

172 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

For  ten  days  or  two  weeks  we  were  almost 
hourly  waiting  the  orders  to  go.  Several 
of  these  days  were  spent  in  mumbling  over 
and  over  such  phrases  as  "M.  S.  H.  G. 
'Armee  Beige  52"  "Pas  de  vos  nouvelles 
depuis  six  mois.  Exil  dur.  Vacances  obli- 
gatoire.  Pdques  a  Anvers.  Adrien  tou- 
jours  parmi  nous"  A  memory  kept  in  con- 
stant training  by  conceit  and  an  ambition  to 
be  able  to  recall  at  a  moment's  notice  cer- 
tain trivialities  of  life,  was  at  last  to  serve  a 
useful  and  honorable  purpose.  Thanks  to 
it  there  were  later  written  and  mailed  in 
Paris  ten  or  eleven  letters  from  Belgians  to 
their  friends  and  relatives  safe  behind  the 
British  and  French  lines. 


173 


Ill 

DEPASTURE — THE   EHINE — THE   BLACK 
FOREST 

THE  day  came,  the  29th  of  March.  At 
noon  we  were  told  that  we  were  to 
leave  that  night  from  the  Gare  du  Nord, 
10:20  Beige,  11:20  Boche.  We  were  to 
meet  for  the  last  Brussels  dinner  in  >the 
Palace  Hotel.  We  recalled  the  Palace  a 
few  evenings  before,  when  at  the  entrance 
of  five  or  six  of  us,  the  Belgian  orchestra 
took  a  long  chance,  and  whispering  ffravitail- 
lement"  played  "The  Stars  and  Stripes  For- 
ever" under  the  noses  of  two  or  three  hun- 
dred German  officers.  The  Germans  sus- 
pected the  tune,  but  they  were  not  quite  sure, 
so  grinningly  the  orchestra  struck  it  up 
174 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

again  and  again.  On  the  way  to  the  dinner, 
there  were  stops  to  be  made,  good-bys  to  be 
said,  hands  to  be  shaken,  toasts  to  be  drunk. 
Perhaps  the  memory  of  those  last  hours  is 
not  unnaturally  somewhat  hazy.  I  recall 
that  when  the  word  was  passed  that  but 
eight  minutes  remained  before  the  leaving 
hour,  I  had  forgotten  in  which  coat  room  I 
had  left  hat,  ulster,  and  suit  case, — they  were 
found  by  Curtis  of  Boston  (Thanks,  Curtis! 
I  did  not  have  time  to  say  it  then,  or  to  tell 
you  how  like  you  the  kindly  action  was) 
and  by  him  flung  through  the  window  of  the 
moving  train — I  remember  the  walk,  hatless 
and  coatless,  across  the  icy  square,  and  the 
long  platform  lined  by  the  C.  R.  B.  and 
what  seemed  to  be  all  weeping  Belgium,  and 
then  the  whistle,  and  the  swinging  hats,  and 
the  farewell  cheer.  "Good-by,  boys!  Good 
luck!" 

There  have  been  many  games  of  poker 
175 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

played,  but  there  has  never  been  one  just 
like  the  one  played  through  that  night, 
broken  by  the  stop  and  frontier  examination 
at  Herbesthal.  Calls  were  made  in  whis- 
pers. If  you  raised  a  mark  it  made  no  dif- 
ference whether  the  stake  tossed  upon 
the  suit  case  was  a  zinc  Belgian  twenty-five 
centime  piece  or  a  handful  of  paper.  Every- 
thing went,  cards  or  money,  at  the  value  it 
was  called.  From  time  to  time  curious,  re- 
sentful German  eyes  peered  in  at  us  from 
the  corridor  windows.  The  mad  Americans 
puzzled  them.  Kultur  contemplated  the 
barbarians.  Then  came  the  morning,  and 
in  the  dawn  the  spires  of  Cologne  Cathedral. 
We  had  taken  with  us  our  own  provisions, 
loaves  of  bread  and  packages  of  military 
biscuit,  hard-boiled  eggs  and  chocolate.  At 
Cologne  we  were  to  stay  from  six  o'clock 
till  half  past  nine,  and,  carrying  our  food 
packages,  we  made  our  way  from  the  station 
176 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

to  a  near-by  hotel,  through  streets  that  were 
surprisingly  deserted.  With  us  was  our 
custodian  Oberlieutenant  L.,  who  had 
thoughtfully  sought  the  seclusion  of  another 
compartment  during  the  journey  of  the 
previous  night.  Here  I  want  to  express  ap- 
preciation of  L.'s  consideration  throughout 
that  trip.  Our  passports  read  for  home,  via 
Germany,  Switzerland,  France,  and  Spain. 
I  think  he  suspected  that  we  were  really 
bound  for  Paris.  But  he  said  nothing.  I 
don't  think  he  blamed  us.  So  here  is  good 
luck  to  you,  Oberlieutenant,  and  bad  luck 
to  your  regiment! 

After  breakfasting  at  the  hotel  from  our 
own  supplies,  there  was  a  brief  visit  to  the 
almost  empty  Cathedral,  a  short  walk 
through  the  near-bystreets,  and  then  we  en- 
tered the  train  for  Mayence.  Soon  we  were 
winding  along  the  Rhine.  "So  you  saw  the 
Seven  Mountains,  and  Drachenfels,  and  the 
177 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

Castle  of  Rolandseck,"  said,  soon  after  my 
arrival  home,  an  enthusiastic  Rhenish  trav- 
eler of  other  years.  "I  did,"  I  replied;  "I 
am  now  standing  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
Rahway  River.  Eight  weeks  ago  to-day  I 
was  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhine.  .  Some- 
how the  Rahway  looks  better  to  me  than  the 
Rhine  did."  Two  days  after  the  arrival  in 
New  York  Percy  of  Mississippi,  en  route 
for  his  native  Greenville,  met  me  by  appoint- 
ment at  the  Princeton  Club.  There  we 
chanced  upon  Dyer,  who  had  lived  in  the 
same  house  with  Percy  in  Brussels,  and  we 
crossed  the  square  to  take  lunch  at  the  Play- 
ers Club.  Picking  up  the  bill  of  fare  Percy 
began  to  laugh  as  he  read  out  "Shad  roe  and 
bacon."  "Don't  you  remember  going  up 
the  Rhine  your  persistent  attempts  to  tell 
of  the  first  meal  you  were  going  to  have  at 
home?  You  always  began  with  shad  roe 
and  bacon.  We  never  let  you  get  beyond 
178 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

that.  But  five  minutes  later  you  would 
start  again  with  shad  roe  and  bacon  and 
have  to  be  squelched  again." 

In  times  of  peace  the  journey  from  Brus- 
sels to  Paris  was  one  of  four  and  a  half 
hours.  Our  roundabout  way  consumed  six 
nights  and  five  days.  The  only  meal  on  the 
trip  through  Germany  at  which  we  drew 
upon  the  resources  of  the  country  was  on 
the  train  from  Cologne  to  Mayence.  The 
meal — the  train  was  one  of  the  crack  trains 
of  Germany — consisted  of  a  small  coffee  cup 
of  pea  soup,  a  fragment  of  stock  fish,  and 
two  inches  of  perfectly  dry  omelette.  We 
were  guilty  of  an  indiscretion.  We  pro- 
duced a  large  loaf  of  bread.  But  it  served 
as  a  diversion.  The  people  in  the  dining 
car  for  the  moment  stopped  glaring  hatred 
at  the  "Amerikaners"  to  look  with  covetous 
eyes  at  their  bread.  By  the  time  we  had 
been  shifted  at  Mayence  for  a  way  train  to 
179 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

Offenberg,  there  to  change  again  for  Zingen, 
that  state  of  irritation  which  had  led  to  the 
suppression  of  my  well  meant  efforts  to 
provide  entertainment  by  the  construction 
of  a  United  States  menu,  had  become  gen- 
eral. We  were  in  the  full  swing  of  the 
Hymn  of  Hate.  Everybody  snarled  at 
everybody  else.  Potter  accused  Leach  of 
being  a  grouch,  and  told  him  what  he  thought 
of  him.  When,  at  midnight,  we  arrived  at 
Zingen,  I  tried  to  swing  a  suit  case  through 
the  window,  I  smashed  Maverick's  hat. 
When  he  protested  I  turned  on  him  sav- 
agely and  told  him  I  would  do  it  again  if 
it  so  pleased  me.  When  I  apologized  some 
time  later  he  grinned.  He  had  understood. 
But  somehow  I  think  the  apology  was  un- 
necessary. The  next  morning  I  entered  a 
barber  shop,  Maverick  came  in  to  make 
strange  motions  behind  me  and  to  exhort  the 
barber  in  what  sounded  like  execrable  Ger- 
180 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

man.  I  think  he  was  telling  him  that  I 
was  one  of  the  hated  "Amerikaners"  and 
pointing  out  the  barber's  obvious  duty  as  a 
patriotic  German  while  he  had  me  at  his 
mercy  in  the  chair.  We  slept  some  that 
night  in  Zingen,  thanks  to  the  midnight 
supper  of  our  bread  and  eggs,  washed  down 
by  glasses  of  the  rather  sour  wine  of  the 
country.  When  I  awoke  and  threw  wide  the 
shutters,  it  was  to  look  out  on  gabled  win- 
dows, slanting  roofs,  against  a  background 
of  dark  trees.  In  my  teens  I  had  gone  down 
the  Rhine,  stopping  at  Mayence,  Coblenz, 
and  Cologne.  Now  I  was  in  a  corner  of 
the  world  new  to  me.  The  Black  Forest! 
From  earliest  years  there  had  been  magic 
and  mystery  in  the  name.  But  depression 
came  with  the  sight  of  the  sullen  faces,  the 
eyes  either  averted,  or  bright  with  frank  dis- 
like. Could  this  be  the  Black  Forest  of 
legend,  of  folklore;  where  eighteenth  cen- 
181 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

tury  innkeepers  prepared  descending  beds 
for  unwary  travelers;  the  Black  Forest  of 
peasant  weddings,  and  rustic  dances,  and 
chiming  bells,  and  watchmen  calling  the 
night? 


182 


IV 


FRANCE — THE  STARRY   BANNER — YARNS  OF 
PARIS 

OH,  the  joy  of  coming  out  of  a  land 
of  bitterness  and  poison,  where  offi- 
cers in  train  corridors  drew  away  from  phys- 
ical contact  with  the  spitting  sneer  "Ameri- 
kaner,"  to  find  oneself  in  a  country  where 
every  face  was  smiling  welcome !  We  were 
journeying  northward  again  in  the  train 
from  Bellegarde  to  Paris.  From  Zingen 
we  had  made  our  way  to  the  Swiss-German 
frontier  at  Schaffhausen;  thence  to  Zurich, 
and  on  to  Berne,  where  a  two  days'  stay 
was  necessary  in  order  to  obtain  the  required 
vise  of  the  American  Legation  and  the  cre- 
dential letter  from  the  French  Embassy. 
The  latter  read,  translated,  "The  Ambas- 
183 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

sador  of  the  French  Republic  in  Switzerland 
has  the  honor  to  recommend  to  the  good 
offices  of  the  French  civil  and  military  au- 
thorities M.  '. ,  member  of  the 

American  Commission  for  Relief  in  Bel- 
gium and  the  North  of  France,  returning 
to  the  United  States  by  France  and  Spain 
(via  Paris)." 

In  Brussels  I  was  in  the  habit  of  saying 
to  the  other  men  in  the  house  that  they  were 
welcome  to  help  themselves  to  anything  of 
mine,  except  my  toothbrush  and  my  Ameri- 
can passport.  On  French  soil,  with  the 
Ambassador's  introduction  in  my  pocket,  all 
other  documents  were  tossed  to  the  bottom 
of  the  trunk.  Not  that  it  opened  all  gates. 
But  it  made  obtaining  the  countless  CfSauf 
conduits"  and  "Permis  de  sejour"  necessary 
a  mere  matter  of  form.  Incidentally  the 
only  trouble  I  experienced  in  traveling  in 
France  had  to  do  with  my  birthplace.  In 
184 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

response  to  the  question,  ffOu  etes  vous 
nee?13 1  would  reply  glibly  and  without  any 
attempt  at  Gallicising,  "Rahway,  New  Jer- 
sey." Incomprehensible  as  it  appears,  the 
officials  seemed  never  to  have  heard  of  Rah- 
way, New  Jersey,  and,  after  puzzled  stares, 
would  write  down  "Rio  Janeiro." 

From  Berne  we  traveled  to  Lausanne, 
and  along  Lake  Leman  to  Geneva,  where 
there  was  a  wait  of  two  hours,  after  which 
we  took  the  train  for  Paris.  In  Brussels 
the  task  of  days  talking  nothing  but  un- 
grammatical  French  became  often  irksome, 
and  the  luncheon  hour  at  the  office  and  the 
evenings  at  126  Avenue  Louise  where  con- 
versation without  mental  seeking  for  the 
right  word  was  possible  came  as  a  positive 
relief.  But  after  the  days  in  Germany  and 
German  Switzerland  the  sound  of  French- 
speaking  voices  was  like  papers  from  the  old 
home  town. 

185 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  of 
Wednesday,  April  4th,  that  the  delayed 
train  stopped  at  the  little  station  of  Laroche, 
about  half  way  between  Dijon  and  Paris. 
On  the  platform  were  rolls  and  chocolate, 
and  smiling  French  officers,  clad  in  light 
blue  or  khaki,  and  wearing  the  calotte,  the 
boat-shaped  fatigue  cap,  were  pacing  to  and 
fro.  "C'est  la  guerre"  I  heard  one  of  them 
say,  and  in  the  newspaper  in  his  hands  I 
saw  the  black  headlines  announcing  the  en- 
trance of  the  United  States  into  the  world 
war.  "Don't  tell  me  I'm  a  belligerent," 
grumbled  Fletcher  as  I  went  back  to  spread 
the  news,  "I  already  know  it."  If  we  had 
doubted  it  then,  the  aspect  of  Paris  would 
have  told  the  story.  Everywhere  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  were  flying.  The  city  had  been 
ransacked  for  the  flag,  and  from  the  Gov- 
ernment orders  went  out  that  it  should  fly 
over  every  school  house  and  public  building 
186 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

in  France.  Yet  in  one  way  France  was  a 
disappointment.  I  had  been  so  long  bottled 
up,  so  long  suppressed,  that  I  wanted  to 
hear  noise,  and  to  help  make  it.  At  least 
I  expected  to  hear  an  occasional  "Vive  la 
France!"  I  never  did.  I  saw  the  senti- 
ment shining  in  the  eyes  of  children.  But 
it  was  a  changed  France  that  I  found;  a 
strangely  quiet  France;  a  nation  smiling, 
but  still  wracked  by  anguish. 

At  three  o'clock  that  afternoon  I  went  to 
sleep.  I  was  unjustly  awakened  at  eleven 
o'clock  the  next  morning  by  the  ringing  of 
the  telephone  bell.  "This  is  Phil  Potter 
speaking,"  the  voice  said.  "Be  at  the  Ho- 
tel France  et  Choiseul  before  two.  We  are 
invited  to  the  French  Senate  to  hear  Prime 
Minister  Ribot  formally  announce  the  en- 
trance of  the  United  States  into  the  war." 
It  will  be  many  years  before  any  of  us  ever 
forget  that  scene,  or  the  simple,  impressive 
187 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

words  of  the  aged  Premier.  "We  all  feel 
that  something  far  surpassing  a  political 
event  has  just  taken  place.  The  most  pa- 
cific democracy  on  earth  has  announced  that 
she  can  no  longer  remain  neutral  when  the 
issue  is  so  clearly  one  between  civilization 
and  barbarism,  liberty  and  despotism.  The 
great  American  republic,  in  entering  the  war 
on  our  side  and  the  side  of  our  Allies,  asks 
neither  conquest  nor  compensation.  Sim- 
ply she  must  take  up  the  gage  of  battle  so 
ruthlessly  thrown  down."  Then  the  stand- 
ing Senate  turning  to  the  box  of  the  Amer- 
ican Ambassador,  the  long  handclapping, 
the  "  Vive  les  fitats  Unis!"  and  the  unfurling 
of  our  flag. 

Succeeding  days  brought  similar  invita- 
tions and  ceremonies.  There  was  the  Prise 
d'Armes  at  the  Invalides,  the  decoration 
with  the  Croix  de  Guerre  or  the  Medaille 
Militaire  at  the  Grand  Palais  of  the  terribly 
188 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

wounded  and  the  widows  and  orphans  of 
those  who  had  given  their  lives  for  the 
awarded  honors,  the  Congress  of  the  Repre- 
sentatives of  the  Allied  Nations  at  136  Ave- 
nue des  Champs  iSlysees,  and  one  scene,  at 
an  exhibition  of  cinema  war  pictures  made 
for  the  French  government,  that  illustrated 
the  sentiment  of  the  C.  R.  B.  The  later 
departures  from  Belgium  had  just  reached 
Paris,  and  in  the  darkness  I  could  recognize 
faces  I  had  not  seen  since  the  last  night  in 
Brussels.  At  a  point  in  one  of  the  scenes 
shown,  from  the  facing  trenches  sprang  up 
hundreds  of  green-gray  clad  men.  Their 
arms  had  been  thrown  away.  With  hands 
high  above  their  heads,  some  of  them  waving 
pictures  of  frau  and  kinder,  they  rushed  to- 
wards the  French  guns.  You  could  almost 
hear  the  "Kameraden!  Kameraden!"  of 
surrender.  A  cackle,  rising  into  a  yell,  went 
up  from  the  throats  of  the  C.  R.  B.  men. 
189 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

"It's  the  real  thing.     I  guess  we  know  those 
uniforms.    We've  seen  enough  of  them" 

"Why  ask  me?"  I  have  retorted  to  per- 
sons at  home  who  have  demanded  informa- 
tion about  the  war.  "You  have  been  far 
enough  away  to  have  reasonably  authentic 
news.  Closer  to  the  fighting  we  had  little 
but  rumor."  In  Brussels  we  could  hear  that 
Lille  had  been  razed  to  the  ground  and  that 
St.  Quentin  was  in  flames.  Of  extraordi- 
nary variety  were  the  yarns  of  Paris.  I 
don't  know  how  many  of  them  have  crossed 
the  Atlantic.  I  tell  them  as  I  heard  them, 
asking  pardon  if  the  tale  be  old. 

First  there  was  the  story  of  the  Kaiser's 
Paris  dinner.  It  was  the  day  before  the 
tide  turned  in  the  Battle  of  the  Marne,  when 
the  armies  of  Von  Kluck  were  fifteen  miles 
from  Paris,  that  agents  of  the  French  secret 
service  paid  an  unexpected  visit  to  the  Hotel 
Astoria  in  the  Champs  £lysees.  Under  the 
190 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

roof  they  found  a  wireless  that  was  being 
operated  by  the  German  maitre  d'hotel. 
They  also  found  full  plans  for  the  dinner 
that  had  been  ordered  for  the  Emperor 
William  for  the  following  night.  Arrange- 
ments had  been  made  with  characteristic 
Teutonic  regard  for  detail.  His  Majesty 
was  to  sit  at  a  table  in  a  corner  of  the  dining 
room  overlooking  the  Arch  of  Triumph. 
The  menu,  of  which  I  was  shown  an  alleged 
copy,  is  too  long  to  give  here.  It  is  enough 
to  tell  that  it  began  with  caviar,  then  oysters 
of  Ostend,  then  a  thick  soup,  and  then  a 
filet  of  sole.  The  wines  were  of  choice  vin- 
tages from  the  Astoria's  cellars.  Just  what 
foundation  there  was  for  the  story  it  is  hard 
to  say.  But  it  is  known  the  bodies  of  some 
of  the  Prussian  Guard  found  on  the  field 
after  the  retreat  were  in  the  white  uniforms 
to  be  worn  for  the  Kaiser's  entry  into  the 
city. 

191 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

There  was  the  "inside"  story  of  the  Battle 
of  the  Marne,  which,  but  for  the  treachery 
of  five  French  generals,  two  of  whom  were 
shot,  and  the  three  others  condemned  to  life 
imprisonment,  was  to  have  ended  in  the  utter 
annihilation  of  the  invading  hosts.  For 
years  the  French  General  Staff  had  had  the 
battleground  in  mind,  for  years  French  of- 
ficers had  been  sent  out  to  study  every  pool, 
tree,  and  rock  of  the  vast  terrain.  Never 
once  through  the  long  retreat  was  the  line 
for  the  stand  forgotten.  It  was  to  be  the 
grave  of  Prussian  military  ambition.  But 
the  five  Grouchys  who  were  to  have  brought 
up  the  reserves  held  to  deliver  the  coup  de 
grace  failed  and  the  shattered  armies  of  Von 
Kluck  escaped  to  dig  themselves  in  along 
the  Aisne. 

Even  more  extraordinary  was  the  tale  of 
General  Gallieni's  end.  "You  think  it  was 
peritonitis  that  killed  him.  That  was  what 
192 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

the  papers  were  told  to  print.  Mon  ami, 
he  was  shot  at  midnight  while  presiding  at 
the  council  table  in  the  fortress  of  Verdun 
by  a  General  in  the  German  pay.  In  a 
battle-scarred  field  just  outside  the  city  is 
a  grave  on  which  are  carved  the  words, 
'Herr,  Traitor  to  France/"  Then  the 
strange  yarn  was  told,  with  many  assurances 
of  its  absolute  truth.  The  General,  an  Al- 
satian with  a  German  wife,  had  been  in  high 
command  when  the  Crown  Prince  launched 
the  terrific  drive  against  Verdun.  Deaf  to 
the  appeals  of  his  officers,  he  ordered  the 
evacuation  of  the  forts  of  Vaux  and  Douau- 
mont.  Secret  investigation  discovered  over- 
whelming proof  of  his  intrigues  with  the  en- 
emy. He  was  summoned  to  the  council 
room  in  the  citadel.  At  the  head  of  the  table 
were  seated  Gallieni,  Nivelle,  and  Petain. 
His  opinion  as  to  the  course  to  be  followed 
asked,  the  doomed  General  advised  retreat 
193 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

along  the  whole  line.  Then  Gallieni  stood 
up  to  read  the  indictment  and  to  throw  upon 
the  table  the  damning  evidence.  In  conclu- 
sion he  drew^  his  revolver  from  his  belt  and 
handed  it  to  the  guilty  officer,  telling  him  to 
go  into  the  next  room  and  blow  out  his  brains. 
Instead  the  convicted  man  seized  his  own 
pistol  and  shot  Gallieni  through  the  stomach. 
The  traitor  was  shot  at  dawn. 


194 


V 

I 

HOMEWARD   BOUND 

AN  old  friend — O.  J. — ,  to  whom  I  had 
said  good-by  last  in  July,  1916,  on  the 
French  Line  pier  in  New  York  was  finish- 
ing his  novel  in  Cannes,  and  thither  I  made 
my  way  to  find  repose  and  Mediterranean 
sunshine,  and  the  environment  of  such  a 
peace  that  I  had  forgotten  existed  in  the 
world.  Vividly  I  recall  the  waking  of  the 
first  morning.  The  sun  was  shining.  The 
voices  of  playing  children  came  up  from  the 
garden  below.  The  force  of  the  Mistral 
that  had  been  blowing  for  days  had  died 
down,  though  it  still  swayed  the  branches  of 
the  palms  and  olives,  and  lashed  the  Mediter- 
ranean into  foam.  The  windows  framed 
195 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

the  panorama  that  sweeps  from  the  lies  des 
Lerins  to  the  Esterel.  From  the  near-by 
room  came  the  sound  of  a  Victrola.  It  was 
the  first  heard  in  four  months.  It  had  been 
playing  Harry  Lauder's  "The  British  Bull- 
dog's Watching  at  the  Door."  But  Oh !  I 
wanted  to  hear  "Dixie"  and  "Marching 
Through  Georgia"  and  "My  Old  Kentucky 
Home"  and  for  sheer  swing,  "There'll  be  a 
Hot  Time  in  the  Old  Town  To-night." 

Yet  strangely,  in  the  midst  of  that  sooth- 
ing tranquillity,  hundreds  of  miles  away  from 
the  nearest  battle  front,  I  saw  the  great 
struggle  with  a  surer  vision  and  a  broader 
comprehension  than  ever  before  or  since. 
The  French  advance  of  April  17  was  at  first 
heralded  as  a  great  success.  American 
cablegrams  to  the  French  papers  pictured 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  the  news  had  been 
received  by  the  audience  in  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  in  New  York — the  smiling  di- 
196 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

rector  appearing  before  the  rung  down 
curtain,  and  with  uplifted  hand  saying: 
"Notre  splendide  allie,  notre  chere  sceur 
la  France,  vient  de  remporter  une  grande 
victoire.  Dix  mille  prisonniers.  C'est  le 
commencement  de  la  fin!"  But  in  Cannes 
we  knew  better.  Invalided  officers  of  high 
rank,  who  knew  every  hectare  of  the  bloody 
ground,  shook  their  heads.  Progress  and 
prisoners,  yes;  but  you  will  learn  that  the 
price  paid  was  a  terrible  one.  Be  it  under- 
stood that  it  was  not  as  a  casual  visitor,  even 
as  a  citizen  of  the  great  and  powerful  nation 
that  had  just  become  France's  ally,  that  I 
was  entrusted  with  such  confidences;  but  as 
a  member  of  the  Do-As-You-Please  Club 
which  dined  around  an  American  flag  flying 
from  the  neck  of  an  empty  wine  bottle  on  a 
table  in  the  Hotel  Suisse.  It  was  my  com- 
pany that  guaranteed  me.  It  is  to  Cannes, 
its  smiling  face  and  its  plenty  that  my 
197 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

thoughts  turn  back  when  I  hear,  as  we  all 
hear  from  time  to  time  of  the  terrible  plight 
of  France,  bled  white,  and  menaced  by 
starvation.  I  recall  a  Sunday  drive  back 
in  the  mountains  to  Auribeau,  an  old,  old 
town  of  winding  streets  climbing  to  the  an- 
cient church  that  crowns  the  hilltop.  Close 
by  the  church  is  the  school  house  with  its 
garden.  "Do  you  see  that?"  said  O.  J., 
pointing  to  the  garden.  "That  is  the  an- 
swer. That  is  why  they  are  licking  the 
Germans." 

Two  weeks  later,  homeward  bound,  we 
were  making  our  way  across  Southern 
France.  From  the  windows  of  the  train, 
which  took  eight  hours  for  the  j  ourney  from 
Cannes  to  Marseilles,  we  saw  the  vast  camps, 
exact  reproductions  of  fighting  fields  of  the 
North,  where  French  officers  were  training 
the  Sengalese  in  the  grim  business  of  war; 
and,  from  time  to  time,  the  air  black  with 
198 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

the  maneuvering  bird-men.  Then  Taras- 
con,  land  of  Tartarin  and  the  galejade, 
Cette,  Carcassonne, — "He  never  gazed  on 
Carcassonne:  each  mortal  has  his  Carcas- 
sonne,"— Toulouse,  and  Bordeaux,  with  its 
Barbary  Coast,  and  its  strange  driftage  of 
the  Seven  Seas.  There  I  was  to  hear  the 
latest  news  of  the  C.  R.  B.  men  and  to  read 
Percy's  Greenville  cablegram  of  congratu- 
lation, rich  with  the  flowery  eloquence  of  the 
old  South. 

Recalling  the  length  of  that  cablegram  I 
feel  sure  that  Greenville  must  have  assumed 
an  issue  of  long  term  bonds  to  pay  for  its 
transmission.  With  wicked  envy  I  taunted 
Percy  with  its  superlatives.  With  true 
politeness  of  the  heart  he  attempted  to 
soothe  me  with  the  suggestion  that  a  similar 
one  for  me  was  probably  somewhere  on  the 
way.  But  I  knew  better.  My  native  town 
had  already  done  its  bit  for  me.  "It  was 
199 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

the  night  before  I  sailed,"  I  explained  mood- 
ily.  "They  arrested  me  and  they  took  me 
to  the  jail.  Oh,  yes.  It  was  the  5th  of 
January,  and  I  was  running  the  car  on  the 
old  1916  license  plates." 

There  was   to   Bordeaux   an   American 
flavor  that  it  had  never  known  in  the  years 
before.    American  cattlemen  lurched  about 
the  streets.    As  you  were  walking  along  the 
water   front    accents    at    once    nasal    and 
fuddled  stumbled  through  a  hard  luck  story 
and  sought  to  wheedle  a  loan.    A  small 
group  of  gunners  that  had  come  over  on 
.United  States  ships  rioted  in  an  affluence 
that  was  amazing  but  short  lived.     The  men 
were  in  possession  of  an  apparently  inex- 
haustible supply  of  highly  colored  certifi- 
cates designed  to  advertise  a  new  brand  of 
chewing  tobacco.     These  they  proceeded  to 
spend  royally.    "This,"  one  of  them  would 
200 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

say,  peeling  off  a  certificate,  "is  good  for  two 
thousand  crowbars.  Keep  the  change." 
The  situation  did  not  seem  so  comical  when 
they  surveyed  it  from  behind  the  bars  of 
French  cells.  Their  nationality  saved  them 
serious  trouble.  After  being  held  a  few 
hours  to  think  matters  over,  they  were  re- 
leased with  the  warning  to  behave  them- 
selves in  future.  Two  or  three  days  before 
the  Chicago  sailed,  the  morning  train  from 
Paris  brought  eight  or  ten  American  ambu- 
lance drivers  homeward  bound.  They  soon 
exhausted  the  diversions  that  the  city  af- 
forded. Then  they  learned  that  there  were 
many  thousand  German  prisoners  of  war  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Bordeaux.  "Let  us  go 
call  on  the  Bodies,"  some  one  suggested. 
So  they  went,  and  derived  huge  satisfaction 
from  gazing,  and  thrusting  out  their  tongues, 
and  dangling  fake  sausages  attached  to 
201 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

sticks.  It  was  the  only  case  of  ill-treatment 
of  German  prisoners  in  France  of  which  I 
heard. 

In  a  previous  chapter  reference  has  been 
made  to  our  use  of  American  slang  in  Brus- 
sels as  a  medium  by  which  we  could  frus- 
trate German  listeners.  That  sanctuary  of 
language,  into  which  so  few  foreigners  are 
ever  able  to  penetrate,  belongs  to  every  na- 
tion. John  Poe,  who  died  greatly  in  Flan- 
ders with  the  Black  Watch,  and  who,  I  am 
sure,  met  death  with  the  same  kind  smile  on 
his  face  that  he  wore  the  first  day  I  met 
him,  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  in  the  old 
Osborn  Club  house  at  Princeton,  when  I  was 
a  freshman  trying  for  the  class  team,  often 
wrote  to  his  brothers  telling  of  sitting  among 
his  fellows  of  the  regiment,  linguistically  al- 
most a  stranger.  In  France  the  argot  of  be- 
fore the  war  was  baffling  enough.  There  has 
sprung  up  a  new  argot,  born  of  the  great 
202 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

conflict,  the  argot  of  the  poilus.  Read,  or  try 
to  read  Rene  Benjamin's  much  discussed 
"Gaspard,"  or  "Le  Feu"  by  Henri  Bar- 
busse,  which  received  the  Prix  Goncourt.  A 
French  officer  who  crossed  on  the  Chicago 
laughingly  acknowledged  that  there  were 
times  when  he  was  hard  put  to  it  to  compre- 
hend. It  was  not  argot  that  was  used  as  a 
cypher  in  one  instance,  according  to  the  tale 
of  the  genial  LeDantec,  prince  of  transatlan- 
tic commissaires  and  good  fellows.  Nearing 
the  danger  zone,  one  of  the  French  liners  was 
hailed  by  a  vessel  claiming  to  belong  to  the 
same  line.  "We  want  to  know  your  exact 
whereabouts,"  was  the  sense  of  the  message. 
But  these  are  days  when  ships  are  sus- 
picious of  cajoling  words  plucked  out  of  the 
air,  and  steam  away  under  full  power  from 
S.  O.  S.  calls.  Finally  the  reply  with  the 
desired  information  was  sent.  But  as  a  pre- 
caution it  was  worded  in  Breton.  Now  ten 
203 


BOTTLED  UP  IN  BELGIUM 

thousand  Germans  understand  French  to 
one  who  has  the  slightest  knowledge  of 
Breton,  but  there  is  not  a  real  French  ship 
on  the  sea  without  some  one  on  board  who 
calls  the  ancient  language  his  own. 

There  was  no  spy  mania  on  board  the 
Chicago.  The  French  officials  at  Bordeaux 
were  taking  no  chances.  Their  work  had 
been  thoroughly  done.  But  from  the  point 
of  view  of  people  who  think  of  transatlantic, 
travel  as  it  was  before  August,  1914,  we 
were  a  strange  ship's  company,  far  stranger 
than  the  one  on  the  Nieuw  Amsterdam. 
First  there  were  the  returning  American 
Ambulance  drivers,  a  service  that  had  appar- 
ently been  recruited  from  all  classes  and  con- 
ditions. Two  of  them  enlivened  the  first 
evening  by  a  sanguinary  mix  up  all  over 
the  smoking  room.  The  row  had  been  com- 
ing for  some  time,  the  other  ambulanders 
explained.  There  had  been  bad  blood  be- 
204 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

tween  the  two  back  in  Paris.  Stretching 
his  uniform  at  all  points  almost  to  bursting 
was  Nicolini — that  is  not  his  name — with 
his  great  laugh  and  his  dreadful  grammar. 
"Read  'em  and  weep,  boys,"  was  his  invari- 
able admonition  as  he  dealt  the  cards  in  the 
poker  game.  Then  his  deep  voice  raised  in 
unmelodious  song,  shook  the  ceiling  of  the 
smoking  room.  "Oh,  some  girls  will  and 
some  girls  won't:  some  girls  do  and  some 
girls  don't."  It  ended  there.  That  was  as 
much  as  he  knew.  But  the  constant  repe- 
tition became  the  ship's  tragedy.  From 
the  poker  game  player  after  player  drifted 
away.  Finally  even  "Nic"  joined  the  de- 
serters. "What  do  you  think?"  he  confided 
in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "There's  a  man  cheat- 
ing in  that  game.  Cheating  in  a  franc 
limit."  Over  and  over  he  kept  emphasizing 
that  phase  of  the  crime.  '  'A  franc  limit !  Did 
you  ever  hear  the  like?"  "Some  night,"  said 
205 


BOTTLED  UP,  IN  BELGIUM 

P.  J.  to  me,  "y°u  will  be  coming  out  of  the 
Hotel  Knickerbocker,  and  a  familiar  voice 
will  greet  you  with  'Taxi?  Taxi?'  and  you 
will  look  up  and  see  Nic."  The  remark 
was  in  no  spirit  of  detraction.  It  simply 
meant  that  it  would  not  be  surprising  to 
find  the  genial  soldier  of  fortune  in  any  avo- 
cation or  orbit. 

The  ambulance  driver  with  the  Buffalo  ad- 
dress' had  announced  himself  before  we 
sailed.  Perhaps  with  the  idea  of  comforting 
the  few  women  passengers  he  had  loudly 
proclaimed  that  the  U  boats  were  after  the 
Chicago  this  trip  and  were  going  to  get  her, 
sure.  He  knew,  because  he  had  inside  in- 
formation. "We  military  men  have  our  re- 
sponsibilities," he  told  Percy  reassuringly. 
"If  anything  happens  I  will  keep  an  eye  on 
you."  This  to  Percy,  who  was  sheer  grit, 
who  once  went,  single  handed,  into  a  mob 
of  lynchers,  and  took  out  his  man.  (Percy 
206 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

does  not  know  that  I  know  that,  and,  I  fear, 
will  not  like  my  telling  it.)  We  could  not 
place  the  man  until  we  realized  that  he  was 
in  a  state  bordering  almost  on  panic.  Oc- 
casionally, in  the  day  time,  he  slept.  But 
between  the  mouth  of  the  Gironde  and  the 
Narrows  he  never  took  off  more  than  his 
leather  puttees.  Night  after  night  he  paced 
the  wind  swept,  spray  wet  deck.  In  his 
talk  he  was  neither  tactful  nor  modest. 
Consequently  advantage  was  taken  of  his 
apprehensions  and  credulity.  The  list  of 
the  ship  and  what  it  might  portend  were 
gravely  discussed  in  his  presence.  Silence 
was  demanded  in  order  that  the  working 
pumps  below  might  be  more  distinctly  heard. 
Certain  riotous  spirits  of  the  smoking  room 
donned  the  life  belts  and  insisted  on  patrol- 
ling the  deck  in  his  company. 

The  Chicago  was  bringing  back  to  the 
United  States  the  officers  and  crews  of  three 
207 


American  merchantmen  that  had  been  tor- 
pedoed, two  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  one 
in  the  Bay  of  Biscay.     It  was  the  same  story 
that  all  the  survivors  told;  the  pitiless  firing 
on  the  crews  after  they  had  taken  to  the 
boats.     The  skipper  of  one  of  the  destroyed 
vessels  was  a  Swede.    But  his  wife  was  as 
Irish  as  the  lovely  River  Shannon.    Her 
narrative  was  rich  with  descriptive  quality 
and  invective.    "The  diwils!    Niver  will  I 
touch  hands  again  with  one  of  them  as  long 
as  I  live.    My  husband  sez  to  me,  'Aggie, 
stand  up !    Maybe  when  they  see  ye  they'll 
stop  firing!'     Stop  firing,  is  it?    The  next 
shot  shook  all  the  hairpins  out  of  me  head!" 
The  trivial  tale  draws  to  a  close.     The 
ropes  were  cast  off,  and  the  Chicago  steamed 
down  the  widening  river  on  its  way  to  the 
Bay  of  Biscay.     A  few  hours  before  our 
departure  the  Eochambeau  had  arrived  from 
Neiw  York.     The  incoming  passengers  told 
208 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

of  the  submarine  that  had  been  encountered 
forty  miles  from  the  mouth  of  the  Gironde, 
of  the  quick  turn  of  the  steamship's  wheel, 
of  the  torpedo  that  had  missed  by  twenty 
yards,  and  the  stern  chase  almost  to  the 
French  coast.  But  there  was  fight,  there 
was  the  menace  of  swift  destruction,  in  the 
gleam  of  the  long  "Seventy-five"  at  the 
stern,  the  short  "Seventy-five"  at  the  bow. 
Clustered  about  each  were  blue  jacketed 
gunners  from  the  French  Navy.  The  cylin- 
drical shells  were  being  passed  up  to  the 
gun  decks.  Somehow  the  sight  of  the 
swinging  barrels,  and  the  lithe  figures  of 
the  men,  brought  a  sense  of  reassurance. 

There  came  to  mind  the  story  of  the  man, 
who,  on  the  eve  of  a  duel,  was  informed  that 
his  opponent  of  the  dawn  was  a  famous 
marksman,  who  could  shatter  a  wine  glass  at 
thirty  paces.  "But,"  he  said,  "the  wine 
glass  does  not  hold  a  pistol."  The  broad- 
209 


BOTTLED  TIP  IN  BELGIUM 

side  of  the  Lusitania,  steaming  unsuspect- 
ingly into  the  Irish  Sea,  had  been  the  wine 
glass  unarmed.  There  was  nothing  to 
hurry  the  cruel  aim,  to  jump  the  nerves  that 
had  governed  the  guiding  eyes  and  hands. 
The  Chicago  was  the  wine  glass  with  finger 
on  the  trigger.  Nor  were  the  guarding 
guns  all.  There  was  no  chance  of  the  name- 
less terror.  Come  what  might  we  were  to 
be  given  a  chance.  The  life  boats  were 
swung  far  out,  ready  to  be  dropped  to  the 
water.  Every  one  knew  his  boat  and  his 
place  in  it,  and  the  nature  of  the  signal  that 
was  to  govern  his  actions.  The  first  two 
nights  on  deck,  near  your  boat,  fully  dressed, 
and  with  life  belt  at  hand,  were  the  instruc- 
tions as  the  vessel  neared  the  danger  zone. 
The  third  day  a  man  in  naval  uniform,  with 
black  circles  about  his  eyes,  appeared  in  the 
dining  saloon.  It  was  the  Commandant, 
for  the  first  time  leaving  the  bridge.  The 
210 


GETTING  OUT  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

U-boat  infested  waters  were  behind  us. 
We  were  in  the  open  sea.  Across  it  we 
came  back  to  an  America  that  I  had  never 
seen  before,  and,  once  this  grim  job  is  done 
and  thoroughly  done,  may  I  never  see  again. 


THE  END 


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